


The brewer

by Tales of Josan archivist (nocturnus)



Series: The Brewer's universe [2]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: Alternate Universe, Alternate Universe - Post-War, Emotional Hurt, Family Issues, Friendship, Gen, gen - Freeform
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-09
Updated: 2017-05-09
Packaged: 2018-10-30 01:50:49
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 9
Words: 34,418
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10866525
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/nocturnus/pseuds/Tales%20of%20Josan%20archivist
Summary: Severus Snape is exiled from the UK- but what country wants to take in a war criminal? The Romanian Dragon preserve is a law unto itself and is in need of a brewer. A tale of finding one's place in society- even if it is a society of the people of the dragon rather than a society of wizards alone.





	1. One by Josan

**Author's Note:**

> This story was originally archived by Josan at Tales_of_Josan blog at Live Journal. She hasn’t updated since 2008. Lj administration reserve the right to delete inactive blogs. I am merely putting her fics onto AO3 so that they are safe from any issues on LJ.  
> I'm doing this for the purpose of preserving her fics.
> 
> Josan's notes:
> 
> Date: Throughout the month of February, 2006.  
> Pairing: SS with some CW, and a cast of OCs  
> Rating: Gen. Hey, I’m not getting any, so he’s not either. So there!  
> Disclaimer: Rowling gets paid, I’m just a volunteer.  
> Beta: the ever wonderful sylvadin. Mille mercis.  
> Stamp of approval: kaiz and bethbethbeth
> 
> AN 1: I once wrote a story called After the Fact. I think you might be able to consider this one as its follow-up. Not really a sequel, just an off-shoot.
> 
> AN 2: Don’t bother commenting that I have too many dragon reserves according to Lexicon. I don’t care. It’s my story.
> 
> AN3: I wish to thank painless_j for her help with the names. ETA: I had used a certain poet’s name for the Baron. Seems the character of the story did not suit that name, so it has been changed – slightly – from the original. Poets have enough trouble as is; they don’t need to be seen as villains.
> 
> AN4: Persons to blame for this one: bethbethbeth, who sent me a card with a dragon and a winter-robed wizard on it for Christmas (2004). It’s been staring me in the face for the past year. And flyingcarpet, who wrote me an SS/CW story for the merry_smutmas 2005 fest, that provided me with the setting and the nub of an idea.
> 
> DEDICATION: to the month of February. Why is it that the shortest month of the year seems the longest?
> 
> ETA: SECOND DEDICATION: When I began posting this story in bits throughout February at josanpq, I had no idea just what a bitch the month was going to be. I just want to acknowledge those who commented on the story as it was posted: you guys helped like you have no idea. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart.

They Portkeyed with him to Calais, the two Aurors assigned by the Wizengamot. Just to make the point that, though they had accepted his story, feeling was that there still had to be punishment for the deeds he had committed during his time with Voldemort.

Exile.

Banishment.

He was being allowed to live. He was not going to be incarcerated till the end of his days in Azkaban. No Dementors, who had supposedly seen the ‘errors’ of their ways and had ‘promised’ to remain ‘faithful’ to the authority in power.

They hadn’t even broken his wand.

They had just informed him that, for his own safety, he was being sent off the island with the understanding that, should he ever return, they would do nothing to prevent any of those who had suffered because of his deeds from dealing with him as they saw fit. Basically a death sentence.

It was evening in Calais. The late summer sun was setting beautifully, the first sky he had seen in over two years. It had taken the Wizengamot a lot of time to get around to him and, then, even longer to accept his version of what had been arranged between Dumbledore and himself. Thankfully – or unfortunately, depending on one’s point of view – Dumbledore had left a well documented Pensieve behind that Headmistress Minerva McGonagall had finally located in a secret hiding place that Dumbledore had been a little too confident she would easily find.

The Aurors stood to either side of him, each gripping an arm in a manner that would leave deep bruising. They released him as soon as they could and stepped back, as though fearing contagion.

“Here,” said one, holding out a scroll. “The sentence of the Wizengamot. Spelt out clearly. Just in case you forget.”

Snape, blinking against the brightness of the sunset, held out a hand and had the scroll slapped into it. He said nothing, not even bothering to look at it, nor at the Auror.

“Fucking Death Eater,” growled the other and spat in his face.

Snape blinked but remained still. He had learnt quickly under the care of Aurors never to react to any kind of gesture on their part.

“Messieurs.”

The dry voice startled the Aurors, who obviously had not been expecting anyone to be around. Snape took advantage of their distraction to wipe the spittle off his cheek with the frayed edge of his sleeve.

A man, dressed in the elaborate formal robes of the French Ministry, walked out from the near-by shadows and glared disapprovingly at the small group. “You have done as you have been ordered to do by your government. It is time to leave.”

The two Aurors bowed to the representative, who condescended to bow in return. With a last look of disgust at Snape, the two Portkeyed away.

The Frenchman said nothing at first, allowing Snape to become accustomed to the light and the fact that he was here, before stepping up and offering him a hand which contained a scroll.

“Our government agreed to allow you to be brought here, but we have decided that it would be best if you did not linger here.”

Snape looked down at the scroll in his hand from the Wizengamot, shrugged and slipped it into a pocket of his worn robe before accepting the second one.

“How...” He cleared his throat carefully. He hadn’t used his voice in many days and his throat was still tender from some of his ‘interrogations’. “How long do I have?”

The man shrugged elegantly. “Shall we say ten minutes? There are many other borders relatively close. Choose one and I have been authorised to give you the Apparation co-ordinates.”

Snape’s scoff was rough. “Where I shall, no doubt, be met by a representative of that government?”

The Frenchman’s smile was cold. “No doubt. But that is not our problem.”

Snape closed his eyes. Had the Wizengamot known? Of course, they had. He wondered if the Dementors would not have been kinder.

He took a deep breath and tried to think of a country that might allow him at least a night in which to recover from...

“Severus! Thank Merlin you’re still here. The idiots gave me the wrong time. Good thing I’m usually early, heh? Hope you haven’t been waiting long?”

Both men turned to see a stocky, red-haired man run up the lane way and to them. The Frenchman had no idea who the man was but, with one glance, costed up the dragonhide jacket, the dragonhide trousers tucked into thigh-high dragonhide boots. Either a very rich man or a Dragon Rider. Either way, someone deserving of a formal bow of recognition.

Snape only stood there, watching Charlie Weasley come smiling up to him, taking into his hand the arm Snape had already held out for his second scroll of banishment. With a wicked grin that had Snape wondering just what the hell Weasley was up to, Charlie pulled him into a hug.

“God, man! You’re skinnier than you’ve ever been. Well, no problem about that. Marise is always certain that we’re not eating enough. She’ll be in seventh heaven having someone to fuss over, and, frankly, the rest of us will enjoy the fact that she does.”

Charlie turned to present a formal bow to the government official. “There seems to have been a mix up in messages. I’m here to escort Professor Snape to his new country of residence and employment.”

The Frenchman only raised an eyebrow and spared a glance for the man who seemed not to have expected this escort of his. Then he shrugged. Not his problem. So long as the former Mangemort was off French territory as quickly as possible. “And this escort is taking place when?”

Charlie countered the Frenchman’s obvious scepticism with an unconcerned, “Why, right now. As soon as the Professor has caught his breath.” He turned to Snape. “Shall we? Marise will have held supper back until we get there.”

Snape slipped the second scroll into another pocket and nodded. “Then we mustn’t delay any longer. I’m certain Monsieur...is also anxious to get to his supper.”

The Frenchman said nothing but waited until Snape had placed his hand on the dragonhide glove that Weasley held out. Then he Apparated back to his office to write out his report that the ‘problem’ had been dealt with, but not the manner. It was obvious that the British had not known of this so-called arrangement and it was not up to him to inform them of it. That would teach them to dump their little problems onto French soil.

[:]:]:]

 

Snape looked around, trying to make sense of the dark.

“We’re two hours ahead of London here,” Charlie explained, watching him with concern.

Of course, it could all be a trick.

“So,” Snape ventured, “there is no supper.”

“Not held up.” He slipped an arm under one of Snape’s and steered him towards a low, long building that reflected golden light from a line of windows. “Dragon Keepers aren’t keen on waiting for a meal. But she’ll have kept some back. Marise knows that we were going to arrive late.”

Snape said nothing, allowing the hand to remain on his arm. He wanted nothing to upset Weasley until the promise of a meal had been proven true.

The door opened onto what at first glance appeared to be a restaurant.

“The Dining Hall,” Charlie said. “Many of us have our own residences in the compound, but since many others of us are single... Besides, cooking is not one of our favourite activities, not to mention the fact that we’re dog tired by the end of a working day...” Even Charlie was aware that he was rambling on. He slowed down and indicated a small table near the swinging doors from which a spicy, warm scent emanated.

“Marise!”

The doors swung open. “Do not shout, Gorynych’s Charlie. You are not in a dragon pen! I heard the door open.”

The woman, who entered from what Snape assumed was the kitchen, did not particularly look like a cook. Or rather Snape’s idea of a non-house-elf cook. She was tall and, while not slim, was not heavy. Her blond hair was braided in a crown about her head. Her welcoming smile was reflected in the bright blue of her eyes. She radiated as much good humour as the tray she carried dispersed an aroma that almost made Snape moan aloud.

Food. Warm food. It had been so long...

“Sit. Sit. Is this the brewer who is coming to save us? Sit, Brewer. Eat. Heavens, you are not a heavy man, are you? The wind will blow you away. Here, eat.”

Snape didn’t care what she thought of him, the scent of the soup she was placing in front of him was the stuff of dreams. He picked up the spoon and took a mouthful, almost afraid this might indeed prove to be a dream and he would wake to his cell with its thin, watery liquid that was passed off as a meal.

No, this one was thick with vegetables and pieces of real meat. It was spiced and filled his mouth with flavours he thought he had long ago forgotten. Then a roll of soft bread was placed by the bowl, on a plate with a large pat of butter, and Snape wondered if maybe he hadn’t just plain died. Except that he expected Hell and not Heaven would be his final reward.

“Slow down, Severus. There’s plenty more from where that came from.”

The anxiety in Weasley’s voice got through to him and Snape looked up from his half-empty bowl.

Marise shook her head at him. “You must not make yourself ill. I think that small meals and many of them will be best. I will send Martin over with another bowl of soup and some bread in a couple of hours. Your stomach will need time to adjust to its being filled.”

And she moved away.

It was only then that Snape realised that Weasley had not been served. “You’re not eating?” Maybe the food was poisoned? Maybe they had slipped something into it that would make him ill?

“My supper’s waiting at my house. My wife knows that I’m taking you around to your quarters after you’ve eaten. Martin will know to find you there with your next meal.”

Next meal. Snape looked down at the soup and thought that, after all, this might, indeed, be real. If not, then it was the nicest dream he had had since...since the whole Albus fiasco. He slowed the rate of his eating, savouring each mouthful now that the edge had been taken off his hunger and he knew the bowl was not going to disappear.

Charlie had been horrified to feel nothing but bone when he’d hugged the man, but to see him scarfing down food as though he hadn’t eaten in days, “When was the last time they fed you?”

Snape shrugged. “Define ‘fed’.”

Charlie said nothing more, allowing him to wipe the bowl with the last piece of bread and sighing with a sort of satisfaction.

Snape sat back and used the napkin that had been with the place setting to wipe his lips. He took the occasion of drinking some of the water the woman had brought with the soup to look around the hall and count places for about fifty. Some of the tables were set for six, others four. There were a couple of larger round tables in the centre, not set. And there were several small tables like the one they were sitting at scattered about.

“Perhaps,” Snape ventured cautiously as he set the now empty glass down, “there might be time for you to explain to me just what I am doing here?”

Charlie sat back and stretched his legs out. He grimaced a little then decided to plunge right in. “We’ve been without a potion brewer for some years. The last one up and left after some trouble and hasn’t been replaced. I heard that you were being released and the conditions under which the Wizengamot had placed you. So I went to the Directress and discussed the situation with her and she decided that it might serve us both well if I brought you here.”

Snape actually found the energy to scoff, the effect of a full belly he supposed. “How is having me around going to serve you well? The moment the Romanian Ministry discovers I am here...”

Charlie brushed that off with a wave of his hand. “Doesn’t matter. The Dragon Reserve is not under the Romanian Ministry. It is an independent facility under International Law. All dragon reserves are maintained under the auspices of the International Federation of Warlocks. The Ministry can howl for your blood all it wants, but if the Directress says you stay here, then you stay here.” He grinned a familiar Weasley grin. “And she’s desperate enough for a good, sensible potions brewer that...”

Snape shook his head. “I haven’t brewed a potion in over two years. I have no idea whether I still have that ability.”

Charlie allowed for a rather impolite sound.

Snape ignored him. “Moreover, I doubt that any director of a dragon reserve could be desperate enough to take on an exiled former Death Eater.”

“You spied for us, Severus.”

“I killed Albus Dumbledore in cold blood.”

“Yes, you did.”

Charlie’s agreeing with him didn’t come as a surprise. Snape must have heard it enough in the past two years.

“But I challenge the ‘in cold blood’. You killed him because he’d ordered you to do so, Severus. In order to protect Draco Malfoy from becoming a killer and to give you the credentials to gain entry into the innermost circle of Voldemort’s people. I have read the transcripts of your trial, you know.”

Snape shook his head. “So based solely on that, you convinced your Directress to...”

“Something I need to clear up right away, Severus. My approaching the Directress was not based solely on the transcripts. They helped me place my proposal to her, but what made me decide to do so was Percy.”

Snape looked confused. “Percy? What does Percy have to do with all this?”

“I know that he was your contact.”

Snape grew very still. “That fact was never brought up at the trial.”

“No, it wasn’t. Because if it had been, then his death and the reason for it would have had to be brought up as well.”

Snape looked down at the empty bowl. He’d have loved more but his stomach was uneasy, as if trying to decide if it wanted to deal with its contents. Maybe he shouldn’t have eaten so quickly. “I knew something must have happened when he didn’t show up for that last meeting. I assumed he had died. It was confirmed in the holding cells.”

“You never mentioned his name during the trial.”

Snape looked up. “He was dead. He couldn’t help me. And I made certain that my visits to him or our meetings left no trails. The only other person who knew...” he looked straight into Charlie’s eyes, “was Shacklebolt. But he’s dead too, I understand.”

Charlie wriggled in his chair, crossing one ankle over another. “Well, Percy told me. Not that, by the time I knew about the trial, my testimony could have helped you. They’d discovered Dumbledore’s Pensieve by then and I thought that you would be vindicated.”

Snape snorted. “Even I didn’t expect that. I was just hoping for a quick death.” Then, “When did he tell you?”

“About a year after Dumbledore’s funeral. I was supposedly visiting the family but, in fact, I was reporting to the Order about the situation out here and the support they could probably get. Which wasn’t much.”

Voldemort had been seen by many a country as a British problem, for the British Wizengamot to solve.

“Mum was very upset and she wanted someone in the family to try again with Percy. To get him to see that the Order was right and that Fudge and his replacement Scrimgeour were wrong. He heard me out and then made me promise not to repeat what he was going to tell me. That’s when he told me. He said he couldn’t prove it and he didn’t expect me to believe him, but that he was acting as a conduit for information between a spy deep within Voldemort’s camp and his contact in the Order. And that’s all I could get out of him. It was only after the Pensieve that I realised he meant you.”

“He made an excellent conduit,” said Severus, drawing designs with the tip of his spoon in the bottom of the bowl. “He was terrified all the while, but he was Gryffindor enough to find the courage to overcome his fears.” He looked up. “Your family must be proud of him now.”

Charlie sighed. “They don’t know about that.”

Snape lost interest in the bowl. “Why not?”

“Because then the reason for Percy’s death would come out and it would kill my parents.”

Now Snape was thoroughly confused. “I was under the impression that Scrimgeour himself killed Percy.”

“He did. He’d heard that there was a spy in his office and he finally worked out who it was. Besides passing on the information you were getting to him, Percy was also reporting on Scrimgeour to Shacklebolt, the Minister’s movements, his meetings, the bribes.”

“How did he hear?”

Charlie rubbed his face with his hands. “There was a confrontation between Scrimgeour and the twins in one of their stores. They knew that the Order was getting information from inside Scrimgeour’s office. They’d overheard a conversation between McGonagall and Shacklebolt. Not all of one, but enough to know that there was a leak. The idiots taunted him with that information and Percy died.”

“Do they know that they are responsible?”

Charlie nodded. “They didn’t believe me at first, about Percy spying. And about their role in his death. I had to pound the shit out of Fred to get them to take me seriously.”

“George?”

Charlie stared at the backs of his hands. He had refused to allow anyone to heal the bruising and cuts until he’d got home, as a reminder to the twins that he’d taken both of them on once – George had, of course, come to Fred’s rescue – and that he could do it again.

“Him, too.”

He looked up to meet Snape’s eyes. “Look, I know Percy was a prat, especially in their eyes, but he was my little brother and he was my responsibility when the twins were born. I cared for him and I loved him. And if I had been home more often, or more interested in what was going on in Britain...but I wasn’t and Percy was what he was. If my parents knew that the twins had caused Percy’s death with their big mouths... Mum still hasn’t really recovered from Ginny’s and the news may be too much for both Mum and Dad.

“By the way, Bill does know. Right now, he’s using the information to keep the twins under control. They tend to be a little wary of his skill with curses. Though, frankly, I have no idea how long their good behaviour will last once Bill returns to his responsibilities in Egypt come the new year.”

Snape looked down at the napkin he had wrung while listening. “I’m sorry he died that way. Percy should have been allowed his moment in the sun.”

Charlie nodded. “Well, to get back to this situation, once I heard from Dad what the Ministry had officially planned for you, the Directress and I had a few conversations about the idea and she felt it was well worth investigating.”

Charlie stood up. “It’s late and I need to show you where you’re staying. Especially when Marise sends Martin with another meal for you. It’s too dark to visit the compound, so I’ll show you straight to your quarters. They’re in the Visitors’ Hall, just to reassure you that there’s no pressure on you to accept the position.”

Snape’s bark of laughter was chilling. “And what happens to me should I refuse?”

Charlie shook his head. “Nothing. You can stay here until you find a place you’d rather live. We understand the circumstances, Severus. It’s just an offer. Not blackmail. Not a threat. You’ll find Dragon Keepers here, not Aurors.”


	2. Two by Josan

The room was much larger than his cell had been. Cleaner, warmer, brighter. Though narrow, this bed was wider than his prison cot, with clean sheets and several blankets.

“There are extra blankets in the wardrobe. The entire building is warmed by a heating spell, but some find it’s not enough. Oh, and there’s some clothing as well. We didn’t know what you were going to be allowed to bring with you...”

Snape turned from staring at the bed. “Nothing. Only what I have on my back.”

Charlie bit his tongue. “Well, not a problem.” He pointed to the large, double-doored wardrobe standing in a corner. “We always have extra around because visitors tend to forget stuff or get too close to a young dragon. Yorgi has a tendency to set fire to Visitors’ clothing. We always tell them that it’s an accident but the bloody dragon thinks it’s funny.”

Snape merely grunted.

“Oh, and the bathroom is behind this door. You share with the other guest room, but there’s no one there now. If you like, you probably have time to bathe or take a shower before Martin shows up.”

Snape shrugged, as though it weren’t important. But Charlie had the impression that he’d no sooner leave than the water would be turned on.

“Ill come by in the morning, to show you around.”

“When do I meet the Directress?”

Charlie had his hand on the door to leave. “In a couple of days. She’s at a meeting of Reserve Directors. Well, I’m off. If you need anything, tell Martin.”

“Weasley.”

Half way out the door, Charlie looked over his shoulder.

“Thank you.”

Charlie grinned. “You’re welcome.”

Snape lay in water – hot water – up to his chin. The only cleaning he had been allowed over the last two years had been, at first, a weekly spell done on him and his clothing by an Auror, and then, when Albus’s penseive had been found, a cold shower twice a week.

He tried hard not to succumb to sleep but the second time he caught himself nodding off, he reluctantly dragged himself out of the tub, then dried his body with a towel whose thickness and length would have made four of the one he’d previously been allowed. He wrapped the second one that hung on the rack closest to his door around himself. He didn’t think he could bear to put back on the clothing he’d been wearing for two years.

Opening one door to the wardrobe, he found shelves that held three changes of underwear, four pairs of socks, a thick, dark grey sweater – thankfully not of Weasley design – and a long, thick nightshirt. Dark green, not his usual grey, but who cared? He slipped it on and discovered a matching dressing gown hanging from a hook on the other door which had also revealed a black robe, two shirts – one purple and the other a green paisley which made him wince – and two pairs of black twill trousers. There were even slippers on the floor of the wardrobe.

Clean, fed, clothed, Snape inspected the room with more attention. The plain bed was not similar to his old one at Hogwarts, but sitting on it proved that it was comfortable. He reached over and pulled down the bedclothes to discover a thick duvet between the covering blanket and sheets. Moreover, the bed was long enough for his height. There would be no need to sleep with his knees pulled up.

There was a nightstand by the bed with a lamp on it. In the drawer, he found several handkerchiefs, a pair of thick, fleece-lined socks – Albus... He shook his head as he replaced the socks but then forced himself to complete the thought. Albus would have loved those.

There was a shelf under the drawer, which contained several books. He glanced at the titles, wondering if it had been Weasley who had seen to it that they were in English. One of them attracted his attention: The History of Dragon Reserves. He took it up and scanned the table of contents until he found that there was indeed a chapter on the Romanian Reserve. He noted the page number before he closed the book.

There was a small writing desk with chair in another corner of the room, next to a floor lamp, which had a comfortable looking armchair to its other side. The carpet on the floor was thick even if the fading of the greens which coloured it suggested it was not new.

Compared to his previous housing, it was a king’s room. He wondered how long he would be permitted to reside in it?

He used his wand to light the bedside lamp and propped up the pillows so that he could read, stretched out on the bed.

He’d almost completed the Reserve’s history up to the eleventh century when there came a knock on the door. Snape stilled, barely breathing. A knock? Who...? Then he remembered the promised second meal delivered by a Martin.

With an attempt to still his quickly beating heart, Snape slipped off the bed only to look at the door.

There was a second knock.

He couldn’t get his feet to move. What if they’d discovered that they’d made a mistake after all? That he was going to be told to leave now?

A third knock.

“Hey! Do you want this food or don’t you? No skin off my arse if you don’t, but don’t think for a minute that I’m going to deal with Marise when I throw it away.”

The tone, or the threat of throwing away food, got his feet to move.

From the direction of the voice, he’d assumed a grumpy house-elf, even though he’d heard that house-elves refused to work near dragons. No, it was a goblin, who charged in and left a tray precariously balanced on the corner of the nightstand before charging back out again. In the doorway, the goblin, who had to be Martin, stopped to glare over his shoulder. “Don’t expect service like this every day, Brewer. And be sure you take the tray back in the morning.”

Then muttering to himself in a language Snape did not recognise, he went down the hallway, disappearing around a corner. Snape winced at the sound of the outer door slamming and wondered if he was going to owe the goblin an apology the next time he saw him.

He ate this second bowl of soup much more slowly, dipping the small roll into the broth and sucking the liquid out of the bread before biting it off. There was a glass of milk as well, spelled to remain slightly warm until he’d drunk it. After that, his eyes refused to remain open and so he had the delicious pleasure of slipping his now socked feet between crisp, fresh-smelling sheets.

He expected the nightmare, of course. It took him several heart-pounding minutes to realise that he was not at the top of a Hogwarts tower, that Draco was not there with him. That Albus was not lying, crumpled up at his feet.

He went to rinse his face in the bathroom, avoiding his reflection in the mirror before finding the warmth of the bed once more. This time, he slept until morning.

[:]:]:]

 

He was ready when the knock sounded, dressed in his ‘new’ clothes. He’d transfigured the shirts into solid blacks. He’d expected Weasley so the young woman at his side took Snape a little by surprise.

Charlie’s pride and happiness was easy to discern in his introduction. “Severus, may I present my wife, Katrina. Or as she is known here, Chudo-Udo’s Katrina.”

It took only one look to conclude that the woman was also a Dragon Rider. About Charlie’s height, with his build. Her dark hair was long and tied back in a tail of curls that had already escaped their bindings. Her best feature were the eyes, dark, bright, and filled with life. Not a beauty – certainly not when compared to Fleur Delacour-Weasley – but Snape didn’t doubt that Charlie thought her beautiful.

“Mrs Weasley.” He bowed politely.

He’d been wrong. Her laughter was her best feature.

“Please. I have heard so very much about you from Charlie that I insist on Katrina. I am so very pleased to meet you.”

Her English was learnt, not a translation spell. Lightly accented. As in many places where there were many of different linguistic backgrounds, English tended to be used as the common language.

“The pleasure is all mine.”

Katrina turned to Charlie and shook her head at him. “I thought you said he was rude.”

A tease as well.

Charlie reddened slightly and Snape suddenly found himself in better humour than he’d been for some time. “That, Madam Katrina, is because you are not a former student. I can assume that you have intelligence whereas, with former students, I know exactly where they stand. Please, I am Severus.”

Charlie growled, “Can we get to breakfast while I still have some ego left?”

Snape turned and spelled the tray with last night’s dishes to follow them.

Outside, Charlie walked to one side of his wife, her arm in his as Snape went to her other side, tray trailing behind him.

In the daylight, he had a better view of the compound. What he could see of it, that is.

It was huge. Much larger than he’d expected.

The greenery was sparse as the terrain was mainly rocky. There was grass, but it seemed to be struggling in the thin soil. The growth of the trees had also been stunted, yet they maintained their places, deformed by the mountain breezes. Here and there, the hardier of flowering plants added splashes of colour.

The buildings were usually of one level and, as much as possible, built against a hill or a buff. Probably to protect them in the winter from the winds. What Charlie and Katrina called ‘breezes’ were reminiscent of those in the Highlands, where at the higher reaches one could use a winter cloak, even in the middle of summer. Snape doubted that it was ever truly hot in the Carpathians.

“The private housing units are over that hill,” explained Charlie. “The dragon pens down that way. Most dragons reside in the mountains, but we keep a few near-by. Old ones that need care, young ones who were stupid enough to get hurt, and, of course, the ones trained to be ridden. Administrative offices are there,” he pointed to the only two-storied building in the area, set on slightly higher ground. “It also houses the Director’s residence. Let’s see. That’s the school. It’s not particularly big because there aren’t that many children around.”

The tone he’d used alerted Snape. There was less cheery-host to it, with a hint of tension.

“Healer’s in that building. It’s closer to the pens as the dragons are his main responsibility.”

More tension there. Not that it was glaring, but Snape had spent far too many years listening for sub-text not to catch it.

“Brewer’s Hall is that one. It’s been closed up since the last Brewer left.”

The Hall was a smallish barn-like structure. Like all the other buildings, it was constructed of thick planked wood that had once been painted some sort of brown-red, with a slate roof. Before Snape had time to ask Charlie when he could see it, there was a shout from behind them. Snape swirled, wand out and ready to defend before he realised that the cause of the shout had nothing to do with him. The dishes rattled on their tray.

“Fight! In the lower pens!”

Charlie looked torn. Katrina patted his arm. “Severus will see me to breakfast. Go.”

The two of them watched as Charlie, wand out, joined the others who were responding.

Katrina slipped her hand around Snape’s arm. “The lower pens means the young bulls. It happens.”

“Should you not be joining them?”

She steered him towards the Dining Hall. “No. I’m on lesser duty these days.”

He understood why once the tray had settled on a table and Katrina had removed the light cloak she’d been wearing against the mountain morning chill.

“You’re pregnant.”

She smiled as she sat in the chair he pulled out for her. “Five months.”

He sat down facing her. “Twins?”

Katrina hesitated in opening the napkin. She looked over at him, cocked her head and sighed, a little loudly. “Now what is it that I have done so quickly to annoy you to have you wish such malediction on me?”

In spite of the teasing, there was an undercurrent of...fear?

“No such thing. I was just wondering if the world would have to battle yet another set of Weasley doubles. I understand that Mrs Granger-Weasley has produced one, as well as Mrs Delacour-Weasley.”

She looked down at her plate. “Not twins. There may not be even this one.” Her eyes were suddenly a little too bright for his comfort. “Dragon Riders have great difficulty bearing to term. Something to do with exposure to the dragons’ magic. This is my second pregnancy. I lost the first child at about this time.”

“I see.” Snape now understood Charlie’s tone. He was wondering what consolation he could offer her when Marise and a tray of food appeared next to him.

“Chudo-Udo’s Katrina, porridge for you, with raisins and cream. Brewer, with honey and cinnamon for you. Milk for both. I shall see both of you at elevenses.”

Snape really wanted to tell the woman that he would decide when he ate, but the scent of honey and cinnamon was overwhelming.

Katrina giggled. “Don’t try. Where food is concerned, Marise is always right.”

As people entered the Dining Hall, they greeted Katrina with the same name Charlie had used to introduce her, nodded to Snape and then left them alone. Though, it was obvious from the way they looked back at them once at their own tables, they were the subject of discussion.

As she wiped her mouth, Katrina whispered, “They’re not certain if you’re going to stay with us.”

“Is that it, really?” Snape wondered if food this good was worth being stared at.

“Really. We are in need of a Brewer. For many reasons.”

He looked at her, willing to pretend she was right. “Where are you getting your potions from?”

“Right now, the Healer is brewing those he can. He’s a good healer, but not such a good brewer. Those beyond his skills, we are purchasing at great cost from other Reserves. Some of which are fine for their dragons, but not ours. The potions created by our last brewer were also not very good.” She shrugged. “It is not easy to find a brewer who is willing to work for the hours and pay that a Reserve can offer.”

Strangely, Snape felt relieved, not insulted, that she had indicated good brewers wouldn’t be caught dead working for Reserves. He knew that, had the circumstances be different, he would not be here, hoping that the offer of employment was a true one.

“Where are you getting the potions you need for a difficult pregnancy?”

“I see a Healer in Sofia. She refuses to come here. Afraid she’ll be eaten by a dragon.”

A difficult pregnancy was not aided by having to Apparate to visit one’s Healer. Snape wondered what potions Katrina was taking. Not that he could help her much without direction; he knew nothing about pregnancies other than how to prevent them or abort them. Pomfrey had usually needed that last potion at least a couple of times a year.

“I need to walk. Will you walk with me, Severus? We could go over to the pens to see how the bulls are behaving?”

He helped her on with her cloak and took her arm.

The bulls were stunned. The Healer was dealing with scratches and bites, while the Dragon Riders who were there stood around, wands out, making certain that he could do his work in some security.

“Stunning spells don’t always work,” Katrina explained. “Some of the dragons have magic of their own that repels them or they can fight them off more quickly than one expects. No two ever react the same. Age, species, temperament all have to be taken into account. For example, Yorgi, the bull with the Healer, is less dangerous than Zmej, even though they are both Ukrainian Ironbellies. He’s a few years younger and has a better temperament. Bit of a clown, really.”

Snape snorted a little at the thought of any dragon being a ‘bit of a clown’.

Katrina smiled but continued with her lesson. “Zmej is probably a future Breeder, and so is more aggressive.”

“I read in the History of Dragon Reserves last night that this one contains many varieties. If two of the same species fight this way, how do the others get along?”

“Equally well.” Katrina laughed softly at his raised eyebrow. “We have more than the local breeds because we have much more room for them. Dragons take decades to reach maturity and live two to three wizard life spans. Smaller reserves specialise in the protection and care of their local breeds, but here, we take the outcasts, those who for whatever reason don’t fit in with their brethren, those who somehow have ended up in the wrong places...”

“You have, I believe, a Norwegian Ridgeback called Norbert due to those circumstances.”

She nodded. “A nice dragon, that. He’s found a place with the crèche. Where we keep the infants.”

“Infants?” It seemed to him that it had been several years since Hagrid had hatched a dragon egg in his fireplace.

“They’re classified as infants until they reach their growth. Some of the smaller ones attain youth status after only twelve years. Others, it can take twenty. They are classified as adults when they are of age to breed.”

“And so these youths are?” Snape indicated the two bulls.

“Yorgi is about twenty-five and Zmej is closer to forty. Another twenty years or so and he’ll be fully mature. Now that’s for Ukrainian Ironbellies. Welsh Greens and Chinese Fireballs are smaller and so mature at a quicker rate. They’re breeders by the time they reach these ages. Norbert is somewhere in the middle. He’ll be ready to leave the crèche and join the youths in another six or so years.”

Zmej proved Katrina right about resistance to stun spells when he suddenly whipped his head around, ready to attack one of the Keepers. The response of the others impressed Snape. No sooner had the dragon moved his head, then they had begun chanting the spells necessary to keep the big bull still.

“Keep that bloody dragon out of it!” shouted the Healer. Then he stood up and patted the one he’d been working on, Yorgi, on the flank, hard. Snape could hear the slap of a hand against the grey, living scales. “All right. Someone get this idiot into a healing pen and keep him out of Zmej’s way for the next month or so.”

Snape helped Katrina sit on the small slope that overlooked the area before joining her. He knew that her eyes were on a certain red-head who was a little too close to the belligerent dragon’s head for his own comfort. She, on the other hand, seemed to be merely curious, as were several other Keepers who had joined them.

“Who started it?” asked one.

“Yorgi. I pity whoever is going to be his Rider. That bloody dragon hasn’t the sense of a mouse.”

“At least, he’ll be easier to ride than Zmej. That one will be hell on wings. Worse than Zmejuka!”

“I doubt he’ll ever be ridden,” Katrina interjected into the conversation. “He’s pure Alpha.”

“And she’s not?” There was laughter.

“Hey,” called out the first speaker, “Chudo-Udo’s Katrina thinks Zmejuka is a pushover!’

Snape leaned closer to the young woman. “Why do they call you Chudo-Udo’s Katrina?”

She waved off the teasing from the others and explained. “Those of us who ride belong to that dragon, not the dragon to us. They will outlive us, even onto the third generation. So we are called by their name. I ride Chudo-Udo, who is a sweet Romanian Longhorn, and Charlie rides Gorynych, which makes him Gorynych’s Charlie.”

“Another Longhorn?”

She shook her head. “No. A Peruvian Vipertooth.” She waited for his reaction with a small smile.

Snape blinked. Even he knew that though Vipertooths were not particularly large, they were venomous. And man-eaters.

Katrina leaned against him, as though confiding a secret. “Charlie handles him particularly well. The Directress says it’s because they both think alike.”

“One-track mind,” said Snape thoughtfully. “Adventuresome, but not stupid with it.”

“Long to anger, but with a ferocious temper when it is let loose.”

“Really? I don’t remember Charlie ever being one to lose his temper.”

“It is rare. But it is nonetheless fearsome. Come. We must report back to Marise. There is another temper that is fearsome when aroused.”


	3. Three by Josan

They kept him entertained for the two days it took for the Directress to return from her meetings. Two days of feeding, resting, walking, and becoming familiar with the compound.

The compound itself was about ten acres in area, built on and between several small hills that abutted a cliff from which the compound dragons launched themselves into the air. The placement of the settlement probably protected it from the worse of the Carpathian winds and Snape assumed that winters would be far harsher than the ones he’d known in Scotland.

He got to see not only Ukrainian Ironbellies, but was introduced to Chudo-udo when Katrina went to do her daily check on her dragon. She couldn’t ride her dragon, but needed to remain in contact with her. Charlie insisted it was only fair that he’d meet Gorynych.

The Longhorn had dark green scales that reflected the light with flashing sparks, and a long, gold-coloured horn in the middle of her forehead. Very unicornish, thought Snape and said so. Katrina laughed.

Gorynych was copper-coloured, almost a match for Charlie’s hair. He was smaller than Chudo-Udo, maybe fifteen feet in length, with scales that were, Charlie assured him, smooth to the touch. Snape thought the beast was looking at him as though sizing up what kind of meal he’d make. He didn’t say so.

For the number of dragons in the Reserve, 223 at last count, there were fewer people involved than he’d supposed. The human population of the compound was 107 as several of the Dragon Keepers had family, but the actual count of those who worked with the dragons themselves was about sixty.

There were indeed no house-elves, but a family of local goblins, who had been part of the Reserve from its inception, was involved in many facets of life in the compound. Martin was Marise’s assistant; the Bursar, the Steward and the Directress’s Secretary had all been trained at a Gringotts branch.

When Charlie insisted that it was time for Katrina to rest, Snape went back to his room and either slept or read. He learnt that the Reserve had been set up by the Federation in 534 BCE to keep the locals from destroying the eggs they found. That the mountains in the area were the first to be unplottable in the size and scope that they were. Over the centuries, as the Reserve accepted other species, that area was expanded so that today, the Reserve was second largest only to the one in China. As Muggle development encroached on other reserves, such as in Wales, it was growing harder and harder to keep these lands unplottable. Hence the controversy of closing small reserves and exporting all the dragons to those which were in still inaccessible areas.

Snape did hint once to Charlie that he wouldn’t be adverse to seeing the Brewer’s Hall, as it was called, but either his hint was too subtle for the man or he simply ignored it.

They were at breakfast, his third there, when their table was approached by a tall, imposing woman, dressed in a plain navy robe. Snape and Charlie rose in response to her greeting.

As Charlie made introductions, Snape examined the Directress, this woman who held his future in her hands.

She was about his height, broad shouldered with a set of good, sturdy hips. She was big-boned, overlaid with muscle that had probably been developed over decades of handling dragons. He thought that, as likely as not, she now weighed a little more since becoming Directress, what with meetings and administrative responsibilities. As was, she could easily make two of him. Her grey hair was clipped close to her skull. She was not beautiful, certainly not pretty, but the face was strong with a bone-structure that made her almost handsome. Snape calculated that she had already seen her hundredth birthday.

In spite of that, her handshake was solid. Her hands were rough, which indicated she still rode – Charlie had explained that she’d risen to the position from Rider. Snape got the impression of restrained power, as though they both knew that, without much effort, she could break the bones in his hand if she were of such a mind. She also had a pair of surprisingly young green eyes that reminded Snape all too much of a certain Boy Who Lived. There was nothing benevolent about the way she looked him over. Snape figured she knew to the ounce what he weighed. He also concluded that, whether foe or ally, she would be formidable.

“Severus Snape. Brewer. Have Gorynych’s Charlie direct you to my offices for ten. We’ll talk then.”

And with a nod to Katrina, she went off, walking with the ambling gait of one who’d spent decades on the back of a dragon.

“What did she ride?” asked Snape, as they sat back down. He glanced over at the large clock on the wall which, besides indicating that the infants in the crèche needed feeding, showed only eight o’clock.

“Hebridean Black. He’s still around, in the seniors’ caves.”

[:]:]:]

 

“What did you do to him?”

The Directress looked up from her porridge to raise her eyebrows at Marise, who was standing by her table, fists on hips.

“Do? To whom?”

“The Brewer.”

The Directress frowned. “I didn’t do anything to our possible Brewer. I just told him I’d see him at ten. Why?”

“He didn’t eat anything after you spoke to him. And that’s not good. He arrived here looking like death. He can’t afford to skip any meals.”

The Directress nodded, knowing that to argue with Marise when the woman was in full mother–hen mode was useless. But she did note that the man was not as unconcerned as he had appeared to be.

She heard him arrive at her office ante-chamber at nine fifty-five, on the dot. She appreciated that. It meant that her Secretary, Glowacki, would be pleased. Not so early that the man would get on the goblin’s nerves and not late so that he’d fume at the insult to her position. Five minutes indicated that the man would be punctual but not annoying, and she would be spared Glowacki’s mutterings on the matter.

It boded well for the interview.

And he addressed her as Madam Directress. She liked the formality of that.

But the man was more than nervous. He was almost afraid. Not that he showed it in his demeanour. His voice was steady, his handclasp firm, but his eyes gave him away. She knew enough about the situation in Britain to make an educated guess that his recent life had not been easy. Her counterpart at the Reserve in Wales had been more interested in the situation as the resolution had consequences for him. He’d produced a wealth of information – somewhat biased, she supposed – in response to her discreet questioning.

She’d learnt that her potential Brewer was a man who was not liked, in spite of having put his life on the line for the ultimate winning side. Mind, the other side could have as easily won and he’d have been far better off. No, instead, he’d remained true to this Albus Dumbledore and been made to suffer for it.

Dragons were so much easier to figure out than humans, whether Muggle or Wizard.

She wanted him a little more relaxed than he was and so she asked Glowacki to serve tea. The goblin glared at her but said nothing. She knew she hadn’t got away with the liberty when the knock came at her office door and Martin stepped in with a tray. Marise had added a plate of small sandwiches, a bit early for that, but then the Directress remembered the untouched breakfast.

She kept the conversation to potions, asking about his qualifications, the success rate of his students, his experience with non-human potions. What had happened in the man’s past that was not connected to potions was of no concern to her. They all had pasts and many of them would not stand up to scrutiny any more than his would. Some of the Keepers had come to the Reserve right out of school, like Gorynych’s Charlie, but others, like Zmejuka’s Ivan and Feragon’s Meredith had come out of a desire to start over again.

All that was important to her was a person’s usefulness with her dragons.

And a man who could brew the complexities of a Wolfsbane Potion on a regular basis was someone she wanted on her team.

Marise was right. He was far too thin. But she’d leave that concern up to the Cook. The nerves would settle down once he’d begun working. There were far too many potions that needed to be replenished; he wouldn’t have time to think.

She put down the mug out of which she’d drunk her tea. “Well, shall we continue this discussion in the Brewer’s Hall?”

They didn’t talk on their way to the building near the Healer’s. Well, not to each other. Glowacki followed them out, a sheaf of papers in his hands, not so subtly reminding her that the paper work had piled up while she’d been gone. Other than the meeting of the Reserve Directors, she’d also taken a few days to visit family. She shooed him off at the Hall door.

“It’s been empty since our last Brewer left.” She took out her wand to unspell the wards that prevented anyone from entering.

“I understand he did so under a bit of a cloud.”

Well, the man had enough courage left in him to confront the situation head on. “Yes. He stole from us. He ordered supplies through the Bursar, which are always the highest quality that can be got. Then he sold them and replaced them with cheaper, less powerful, inferior versions. We nearly lost a dragon because of it.”

She didn’t think the man’s shock was fabricated. She liked a man who took pride in his work. Less likely to cheat them.

“I blame him but I understood,” she went on, casting a few Lumos spells around the Hall. “We provide residence and food, but even with that, the pay’s not exactly what you’d have been used to from Hogwarts.”

“My needs are few,” he answered her, a little abstractedly as he was taking a good look around the Hall.

It was a large, open space. About the size of a Ukrainian Ironbelly’s pen. The quantity of potion required to deal with a dragon was much more than that for humans. The space reflected that. There were barrels and bins for dry ingredients, vats for the liquid. The largest cauldrons could contain several bushels and the fires they rested on were fitted for that size.

It was well vented which meant that, when the fires were not on, the Hall was cool – all right, bitter cold in the winter – and needed cooling spells in the summer, those rare few days when the temperature up here actually got high enough to be considered a local heat-wave. Even the summers were cool at this altitude in the Carpathians.

She didn’t doubt his skill, but wondered if the change of quantity would take some getting used to?

No, that didn’t seem to bother him. He stuck his head into a cauldron and came out scowling. He passed a finger over a shelf and the scowl deepened. He opened the cupboards and checked on the potions that had been left behind by his predecessor, none of which had been used due to the Healer’s well-placed mistrust. Snape took one out, opened the bottle and sniffed. “Rancid. He couldn’t even place a decent Stabilis spell on it.” He poured out some of the potion into his hand, dipped the tip of his tongue into it and spat. “It’s not even what the label claims it to be.”

The Directress restrained herself. It wouldn’t do to look too pleased. She would have to remember to give Gorynych’s Charlie a bonus for this. Should, of course, the man stay. There would have to be a probationary period, for both of them, though she didn’t say that they both knew he’d never get a better chance anywhere else.

“The place needs a thorough cleaning,” her Brewer said.

“I’ll speak to Glowacki about that. He’ll...”

“No, thank you, I’d prefer to do so myself. That way I can see what needs replacing not only by way of ingredients, but in the hardware.”

“Make a list of whatever it is you need. Give it to the Bursar and he’ll see to it that it arrives post-haste. We have sources at the ready.”

“There is one problem, Madam Directress.”

Damn. Things were going too well. The Directress waited to hear what it was.

“I have no potions books.” He looked almost embarrassed at the admittance. “And even if I had the ones I once did, they would not be very good for dealing with dragons.”

She looked at him and smiled. She had a feeling this Brewer, unlike the last, would really appreciate their next destination.

“It’s a library of all recorded writings on dragons.”

Njega, the Librarian, sister to Glowacki, had been expecting them. As she rhymed off the rules for borrowing material, the Directress watched her Brewer’s hands caress the spines of the books he was passing as he read titles.

“You’re not listening,” growled Njega.

He surprised both of them by reciting, word for word, what the goblin had been chanting off.

He pulled a book off a shelf, handling it with the kind of gentleness Breeders showed hatchlings. The Directress and the Librarian shared a glance. Njega approved, though they both knew she would never say so.

“What previous Brewers would do is copy the potions that they needed most often into books of their own. Those belong to them should they leave. Njega will see to it that you have as many of those as you need.”

Her Brewer looked at them, face slightly flushed; it was a good colour on him. “You have more than dragon-based potions books here. This is a copy of the fifth century thesis by Louis Moreau de Maupertuis on the use of unicorn hair in regenerative potions. The only other copy that I know exists does so in the private library of the Director General of the University of Vienna’s Graduate Magic Program. He keeps it under ward and spell. I don’t think anyone other than he has read it in the last 50 years. He thinks it is the only copy left in existence.”

The Directress shrugged but did note that Njega seemed more than pleased by the Brewer’s astonishment.

And that should have been it. As far as the Directress was concerned, she had a Brewer who should be left to get on with his work.

Of course, it wasn’t that easy. Gorynych’s Charlie was at the door of her office two days later, asking to speak with her. Glowacki had no idea why, but she wondered if it hadn’t something to do with Chudo-Udo’s Katrina. Pregnancy was a hard time for everyone at the compound. Female Dragon Riders aborted so very easily.

“No, Katrina is well. No, it’s Severus. He’s missed meals and he hasn’t stopped scrubbing down the Brewer’s Hall since you took off the wards and allowed him to set his own. I don’t think his bed has been slept in.”

The Hall had required some care, but this much? How dirty had it been left? She knew it hadn’t been used in three years, but still...

She told Gorynych’s Charlie to tend to his duties and she went off, leaving a glowering Glowacki behind, to see to her Brewer.

He was wearing an old black robe that was now soaked and tattered. He was on his knees, scrubbing the thick, wooden planks that had been smoothed down through centuries of use. A little strange. Muggle cleaning rather than Magic. But then it was his space and how he cleaned it was none of her business. Until she saw the state of his hands. Raw. Bloody.

The Directress leaned back against the door and shook her head. She had to be careful. Dealing with non-dragon people did not come easily to her. Dragons and Keepers she understood. Outsiders, well...

So, it would seem that, besides having pride in his work, her Brewer had issues left over from his previous life.

She looked around and found a stool which she wanded over to just where the man was about to scrub the floor. She made certain not to step anywhere he’d already cleaned and sat herself down on it.

“Brewer.”

He looked up, startled. He’d been in another world. His eyes were red-rimmed with fatigue, matte with it. He blinked several times before she came into focus.

“Madam Directress.”

She shook her head. “This will not do.”

He sat back on his heels, confusion easy to read on his face. “Madam?”

She made a production of propping her elbows on her knees and her chin on her fisted hands. “The balance in a Dragon Reserve is based on very few things, did you know that, Brewer?”

He shook his head, obviously lost.

“The health and security of the dragons is foremost.” She waited. It took a moment but he finally nodded.

“Yes.” His voice held an undercurrent of uncertainty.

“The health of Dragon Keepers is next.”

He nodded, more because she seemed to be expecting him to do so. Epona! He looked exhausted. Face thin and grey. Lips bitten.

“And that is dependent on not just on the Healer but on the Cook. Marise in this case.”

“I’m sorry,” he croaked tiredly. “I don’t follow.”

“Well, you need to understand that our Marise has a special Magic. In spite of her, her food reflects how she is feeling. When she’s happy, pleased with life, her food is good, well-prepared, properly seasoned. When she’s angry, it can be very spicy and the Healer hands out stomach potions until her anger cools. But when she’s unhappy, to the point of tears, then it is truly horrible. Her food is so salty that it is inedible. And you, Brewer, are driving her to that point.”

“I? How?”

“How many meals have you missed, Brewer? How many trays has Martin brought back untouched?”

He went to rub his face but, at the pain in his hands, he dropped them to stare at his lap.

“Look, Brewer, here we have to negotiate. There are no missed or skipped meals in this Reserve. And though the health of my dragons is paramount, there is nothing wrong with them these days that requires you to do without sleep. If you wish to remain here, it means a minimum of three meals a day, in the Dining Hall where Marise can check you out, and ten hours of sleep a night.”

“Madam...”

“Brewer. As a member of this Reserve,” she sat straight, “your health is also one of my concerns.” She softened her tone. “Now then, I can understand why you’re behaving in this manner. You want to make every inch of this space yours. That is a fine goal. That you want to use it as a punishment for whatever reason,” she held up a hand forestalling his comment, “is something you will have to deal with in another way. The dragons need you healthy and capable of using your hands and brain. Three meals a day and ten hours of sleep. Well,” she amended, in a conciliatory tone, “rest.”

He met her eyes and shook his head. “There are potions that to be properly done require stirring every fifteen minutes over 30 hours. They can’t be left.”

“Automatic stirring.”

He shook his head. Ah, so her Brewer was stubborn. That might be a good sign.

“If something goes wrong, a good brewer has to be on site to deal with it. Your Bursar indicated that you have a strict budget and you yourself complained of bad potions. I need to be here.”

“Not every potion requires such attention.”

“No. But many do. If they are to be brewed properly and to the best efficacy.”

She thought a moment. “Three meals a day in the Dining Hall when you are not dealing with such potions. But you warn Marise yourself of what you’re doing and you’ll eat the food she sends you. As for the sleep...I understand that you’ll want to restock as many of the potions the Healer needs, as quickly as possible. But schedule those long ones between short ones. Those nights you have to spend here, see to it that you request a pallet from the Steward.”

He shook his head. “An armchair and an ottoman. I’m used to those.”

She sighed. “You run a hard bargain, Brewer.”

He scoffed.

“Finish off the floor and then go to your quarters. There will be food waiting.” She stood up. “I don’t want to see light in here until after breakfast tomorrow. Is that understood, Brewer?”

He shrugged, wincing, as though finally feeling the muscles he had strained over the last two days. “Yes, Madam Directress.”

When Snape got to his room in the Visitors’ Hall, he found a tray laden with more food than he knew he could eat in one sitting and a jar of unguent for his hands. The label on it read:  
DRAGON BALM

For the rough hands of a Dragon Keeper.

 

[:]:]:]


	4. Four by Josan

The Healer was a tall man, taller than Snape by a head. He kept that head shaved but to make up for it, he wore a trim goatee. He was also much wider than Snape and in spite of his age – decades older than Snape – Snape knew that width was muscle. He was brusque, more used to dragons than humans.

He showed up at the Hall the day the supplies were being delivered. Invoices in hands, the Bursar and the Steward stood next to Snape as he directed the other goblins. The Hall was filling up with fifty-pound bags, twenty-pound boxes and gallon jars of ingredients.

“Ah, here you are,” said the Healer as he handed Snape a long list of potions inserted into a small book that was filled with the bold writings of the man. “Directress told me that you haven’t got your own potions book set up yet, so use mine. Get it back to me when you can.”

The man nodded to the Bursar, turned and left. Before stepping past the doorway, he paused to toss over his shoulder, “List is prioritised.”

A quick glance at both list and book indicated that the Healer was indeed not much of a Brewer. The recipes were easy enough for a fourth year and covered less than a fifth of the potions listed. Since all the ingredients had not yet arrived, Snape spent the afternoon in the library, at a table under the watchful eye of Njega. Her knowledge of her domain proved invaluable as she glanced at the list the Healer had given him and found him the tomes he needed for certain of the potions.

By the time he had to head to the Dining Hall, Snape had most of what he needed to make the Healer happy. As he passed the Librarian, he stopped.

“Madam, I thank you for your aid...”

The Librarian was startled. Other than the Directress, no one ever paid much attention to her.

“...and I was wondering if I might impose on your knowledge of your catalogue?”

“Yes?” Njega was naturally suspicious of wizards and this one was too new to her, in spite of his interest and respect for her precious books.

“Is there some information on the abortion of female Dragon Riders? Why it occurs? What has been done to help these Riders bear?”

Well, that was different. The last Brewer had only wanted to know what rare books she had. Thankfully, they were warded with chain spells to their shelves which only she could release, otherwise she was certain ingredients would not have been the only material stolen.

“I’ll see what I can find. And if you want to leave that list behind, of the potions you were not able to find, I’ll see what I can do with that as well.”

A man who treated books with the respect that they deserved was not a common occurrence in a Dragon Reserve. The People of the Dragons tended to be more of action than of learning. It was not often that someone came to inspect her holdings, other than to take out the latest dragon-related journals. She would see what she could do to ease the Brewer’s way into the Healer’s good graces.

Preparing potions for dragons, Snape quickly discovered, lacked the finesse he had so insisted upon in the classroom. Still, in his search for recipes, he had noted that there were variants depending on breed, though the Healer had not so indicated. The man was probably used to dealing with a generic potion that could be used for all breeds. Snape knew that the man was desperate for certain brews and so produced them for him in the quantities requested.

It took him no time at all to understand that stirring a quart cauldron was not the same as stirring one that contained some ten gallons of potion. As the Directress had indicated, an automatic stirring spell could be used, but Snape disliked the fact that the only spells he’d come across for dealing with such an activity did so only in either a clockwise or counter-clockwise motion. The figure eight motion was far superior for better blending. It was the method he used, that he’d always used, and he was not going to change technique now. It took him two days to modify the spell so that he got the motion he wanted.

He was not pleased with the first batches of potions the Healer sent the goblins to collect, but he would have time and opportunity to modify them to the proper specifications of his own insistence.

The Healer was more than pleased. The potions were freshly made, properly potent and if it meant that he gave less to one breed and more to another, well, it had always been that way. He didn’t expect more. So when Snape did show up at his Hall to ask a series of questions, he was a little taken aback. First, no Brewer in his time had been so particular about the answers he gave. In fact, come to think of it, this Brewer was the first to come ask questions. He offered to provide the Brewer with more detailed information about each of the breeds residing in the Reserve and was again surprised, though pleasantly, when the man took him up on it.

He was not a gregarious man, even with his family, but when it came to dragons, the Healer had a wealth of information. And some seventy years of experience. The fact that the Brewer took detailed notes in those books of his made the Healer wonder if he shouldn’t also write down what he knew. He wouldn’t be employed as Healer until the end of time, as his wife often reminded him. His own children showed no interest in taking up the family trade, but there was a grand-daughter...

Nothing said a Healer had to be a man. And Isabella trailed about like his shadow whenever she visited. Maybe it was time to think of taking on an apprentice. The information he discussed with the Brewer over those two weeks helped him clarify in his own mind how he would go about teaching her.

When the Brewer showed up with a stomach potion for one of the two Chinese Fireballs they had... The bloody male ate anything that he thought looked interesting. Who knew what he’d eaten this time? The Healer would only figure that out when the material that was making him particularly cranky had passed through his system and the Healer would have gone through the dung.

The potion was in a bottle not a cauldron – so much easier to get down a Fireball’s throat, with the correct amount for a Fireball, not an Ironbelly, modified for the digestive system of the beast, well...

Cautiously, he began asking for specific modifications to potions only to discover that the Brewer was already working on those.

The next time he saw the Directress, he felt moved to comment to her, in passing, “Good Brewer you found us.”

The Directress almost stumbled on her path; she couldn’t remember the last time the Healer had anything good to say about a Brewer. Come to think of it, he rarely ever commented in a positive manner about anything other than the dragons or his family.

The next time she saw him, he was back to normal, growling about the Human Healer who refused to come to the Reserve out of fear of being eaten alive. Chudo-Udo’s Katrina had entered her sixth month and everyone hoped she would carry to term. Unfortunately, she’d begun cramping and badly needed the Human Healer who still refused to come.

“Damn it, you know how I hate to lose a child. And it’s not my field. A dragon I can help, but a human?”

The Directress murmured sympathy. Human Healers rarely wanted to be posted to a Dragon Reserve. The ailments that they had to deal with were not the usual ones, other than burns. And every good Dragon Keeper knew how to deal with those.

“Good thing the Brewer found a potion he thinks might help,” the Healer muttered as he left her office.

The Directress found, through the IFoW, a Human Healer who was willing to pay a visit to the compound, but not to stay. Money was the usual issue. There was usually enough money for dragons on a Reserve if a Director was careful, but very little extra for its workers other than their wages. Those who became Dragon Keepers did so more out of love for the creatures than for an opportunity to enrich themselves.

The Human Healer approved of the potion the Brewer had sent up, made a few recommendations and went on her way. Chudo-Udo’s Katrina was to remain in bed for the foreseeable future if she wished to remain pregnant.

The Directress knew that the Brewer had had a meeting with the Human Healer, but all that seemed to come out of it was the Brewer holding more talks with the Healer and spending some nights in the Brewer’s Hall when he should have been in bed.

As long as Marise didn’t disapprove...

She found him late one evening, sitting at a table in the Brewer’s Hall that was set to one side of the fires. Even if it was late October and the evening cool, the door was open to let the heat of the fires out and so she could examine the situation before making her presence known. There was a small cauldron lightly steaming away on one fire while, on another, a large stick stirred one of the largest cauldrons in a motion that to her seemed to be weaving back and forth. Her Brewer was reading a thick tome that covered nearly half the table, with a pen hovering at his side, writing whatever it was he was murmuring to it on the scroll that unrolled itself as needed.

She noted that he had a sandwich in one hand, taking a bite as he turned the page, making certain that any crumbs fell onto the floor and not the tome. The Librarian would appreciate that courtesy.

She knocked on the wall by the door. “Brewer.”

He looked up, swallowing as he stood to greet her. “I’m eating,” he said, holding up the sandwich, as though he were a little boy caught doing something he shouldn’t and offering an excuse.

She laughed. “So I see.”

The Brewer’s Hall was so very different than the last time she’d seen it all bare. First of all, the room sparkled with cleanliness. The ingredients were not only neatly stacked in order, but she noted that he’d hung signs above indicating what each pile was. The same with the boxes and crates of material.

Everything had its place.

The shelves were filled with bottles and jars, each labelled – with a different colour – and, if she was not mistaken, coded by shape. It would seem that her Brewer was meticulously organised.

He was watching her examine the space when a bell went off. “Please, excuse me.”

“No, it is I who needs to be excused. Please, don’t let me keep you from your work.”

He went to the small cauldron and checked the contents before adding seven drops of some black liquid. Then he took up a wooden spoon and stirred, duplicating the pattern of the large stirrer. He chanted softly to the contents, his eyes closed as he concentrated. After several minutes, he stopped, both the chanting and the stirring.

“Is it done?”

He looked over his shoulder at her. “All but the cooling and the bottling.” He passed his wand several times over the cauldron and the steam disappeared.

She saw then that there were rows of small bottles on the counter, waiting to be filled. Everything there was organised as well: the bottles, their stoppers, the labels, neatly written out in a thin, spidery hand.

“What is it?” she asked as he carried the cauldron over to the bottles. His implements were all hanging on the wall above the counter, ready at hand. He took down a small, spouted ladle.

“Toothache remedy. For the Horntails.”

She looked at him. “Isn’t that a waste of bottles? I mean, it takes at least a cauldron-full of potion for them.”

Her Brewer shook his head as he began filling the small bottles. They probably held a cup at most of the thick liquid. “This potion is concentrated. More efficient. Easier to utilise.” He looked at her. “Your Keepers and the Healer will have less chance of being burnt as the dose can be inserted inside whatever hollowed-out fruit or vegetable the dragon likes.”

She nodded. All right, so her Brewer was even better than she’d imagined. The reports coming back to her were not exaggerated. The reason for tonight’s visit had been the correct decision. The faster he felt part of the Reserve, the better.

“Not to be rude, Madam, but is there a purpose for this visit?”

She stuck a stopper into a bottle and then a label onto it. “I take it you haven’t heard that Chudo-Udo’s Katrina went into labour this afternoon.”

He stilled a moment then continued with his bottling. “No. I hadn’t.”

The Directress waited but he didn’t ask. “A girl.”

“Ah.”

“Small. About five pounds, three ounces.”

“Alive?”

“Yes.”

He stared at the bottle he held. “Will she live?”

The Directress hitched a hip against the counter. “If you listen carefully, you can hear her protests at being born.”

He looked at her then. “Katrina?”

“Also well. Your potions did as you wanted them to do, Brewer.”

He shrugged and went back to his bottling. “That is why you hired me.”

She smiled. “Yes, it is. Are you finished with that yet? I have something I want to show you.”

As she labelled the last bottles, he rinsed out the cauldron then checked on the other potion, “It can be left. At this stage, if it hasn’t gone off, nothing will affect it. It just needs stirring for another twelve hours, on a low flame.”

He downed the fire until it was embered, cast a protection wall around the cauldron and its fire then, grabbing his cloak, followed her out of his Hall.

She led him into the residential section of the compound. He said nothing until she handed him a old-fashioned bronze key, about ten inches in length.

“What is this for?”

“For the door of this house. Not that you truly need a key, but it is traditional. Well, go on, what are you waiting for?”

He looked at her warily before he walked up to the door of the one-level house that had been built into the side of the hill. He unlocked the door and waited.

“Well, go on in.”

It was not a large house. Only a parlour to one side of the hallway, with a bedroom to the other. At the end of the hallway, there was a small kitchen behind the parlour.

“The bathroom is on the other side. It opens into the hallway and also into the bedroom. The house is warmed by the usual spells, but there’s a fire in the parlour and a wood stove in the bedroom as well. Provisions for the kitchen can be got from Marise, though expect her to question you on each item.”

“Question me?”

She gestured to the parlour. “Well, probation is over.”

“Over?” He sounded as though he didn’t believe her. “It’s only been two months.”

She shrugged. Time was not important; fitting in was. “You are one of us now, so there’s no reason for you to take up space in the Visitors’ Hall. The goblins have moved your things over. You’ll find them pretty much in the same place where they found them.

“The furniture comes with the house. If you decide to replace anything, let the Steward know and he’ll remove what you don’t want or like. There’s a little choice...”

“No. No, this is fine.”

The furniture was comfortable, solid and masculine. Facing the fireplace, there was a long couch, perfect for an afternoon nap, with matching armchairs, over a carpet of patterned greens that had been woven by Northern Elves. Against one of the walls was a gate-leg table with chairs, which could be pulled out to sit up to four comfortably for a meal. The desk against the back wall had a bookcase to either side. Right now all they housed were the few books that the Brewer had borrowed from the Library, but she didn’t doubt that his own would soon begin appearing. She knew that he hadn’t so far spent a Knut of his pay.

“When you need more bookshelves, let the Steward know.”

“This is for me?”

“You are now officially a People of the Dragons, Brewer. Welcome to the Reserve.”

He still looked too stunned to respond. Maybe this was not as fine as he’d been used to in that school of his.

“Not very big, I know...”

He laughed softly. “Larger than my quarters at Hogwarts.” Then he looked her straight in the eyes. “Much larger than my cell at the Ministry of Justice.”

She shrugged. He would have to learn that wasn’t important. “Well, if you need anything, you know whom to contact.”

As she was leaving the room, he asked, “Was this the other Brewer’s?”

She leaned against the doorjamb. “No. He set fire to that one to cover up his leaving.” With a bit of a smile, she looked around the room. “This used to be mine. The Steward removed a few things that he thought were too Dragon Rider for you. It’s snug and I hope you enjoy it as much as I did.”

“I’m certain I shall. Thank you.”

He escorted her to the outer door.

“Oh, the key goes there.” She pointed to a spot above the lintel that was the pale shape of a key against the darker wood. “Use whatever spells you want for security. Not that there’s much need for that. The People of the Dragons respect each other’s residences. For safety reasons, let my Secretary know what you’ve used. Try not to get too fancy.”

She didn’t mention that the spells on the Brewer’s Hall were pretty much new to them, more complex than anything anyone in the compound had seen. Glowacki hadn’t been pleased, but then goblins were rarely pleased with wizards. If she really needed to get inside the Hall, there were ways that only the goblins knew. Besides, she had a feeling that theft was not something she need worry about with her Brewer. His records of usage were scrupulous even by her Secretary’s standards. And she appreciated his need for security; there were potions in the Hall she didn’t want falling into just anyone’s hands.

“Oh, the goblins come by once a month to clean, if you want them to. They pick up laundry every Monday morning. You’ll find the laundry bag hanging behind the bathroom door. Both services come with the house. If you want them to clean more often, you’ll have to work that out with them.”

As she stepped down from the stoop, she cautioned, “Be careful in the winter. The house is protected but there’s a sharp wind that comes around that buff. It ices up the walkway,” she pointed to the spot, “and, at times, it’s strong enough to knock you off your feet. The children think it’s very funny to see an adult sliding down the hill on their arse.”

[:]:]:]

 

Snape leaned back against the shut door.

A home of his own? He’d been content with the room in the Visitors’ Hall. It was comfortable, warm and clean. But compared to this...

He looked down the little hallway. The wood was dark with age and shining from years – decades...centuries? – of care. There was a long runner that covered the floor boards, in the greens, browns and golds that went well with the colours in the small house.

There was a series of wooden pegs by the door, perfect to hang one’s cloak, so he did. And a mat for one’s wet boots. He slipped off his boots and left them there. The floor was warm but not enough to encourage walking around in socked or bare feet.

Snape took a deep breath then went off to inspect the kitchen, his hand trailing lightly on the dark wooden walls.

It was small, true, but he’d worked in smaller spaces in his life. During his studies with the Potions Master the then Tom Riddle had arranged for his apprenticeship. Even in the labs he’d set up for Lord Voldemort’s bidding as they’d moved through the country.

He doubted he would ever put it to much use, but he did like his morning cup of tea in the bath. He checked the cupboards. There was a complete place setting for six. In another, he found some pots, pans, and a kettle, which he took out and placed on one of the two hobs that were the top of the small stove fitted into the corner. Snug, in a far corner of the counter, was a coldbox that would easily hold food for a couple of days. One could prepare a meal, so long as it was nothing too elaborate.

It had no windows, being deep inside the hill itself, as was the bathroom, which was a duplicate of the one he’d been using. The towels that had been set out for him were white, thick and begging to be used. The toilet was an old-fashioned one, with the water box above, its chain hanging down to the right level. There was space for a small bookcase – if such existed with the Steward – next to the seat, for reading material. He went through and opened the door into the bedroom, casting Lumos as he stepped in.

The room was not much larger than what he’d had at Hogwarts. The bed was built into a corner that abutted the hallway and bathroom, with a small wood stove in the nearest corner, close enough to provide extra heat but far enough for safety reasons. There was a box filled with wood next to it, waiting to be used.

Because of the way the bed had been built, it had the inner walls at its head and far side, with heavy curtains pulled back for the foot and nearer side. The thickness of the curtains and the presence of the stove did not bode well for mild winters.

There was no nightstand, but the head of the bed had two long, narrow drawers with recessed handles and an enclosed shelf that would be perfect for books, a glass of water, sleeping potions. It would do well as a pillow prop, of which there were – he counted them – six on the bed. Over the head, on the wall, were a couple of sconces. Snape had no trouble envisioning late evenings, cocooned against the cold, reading in bed with a glass of wine.

There was another thick carpet on the floor, in a deep blue, to match the bedclothes and the curtains. The windows, a set of doubles at the far end of the room, were also heavily curtained, giving onto a view of the lower compound and his Hall.

His few clothes had been carefully hung in the wardrobe. He found his slippers there and gratefully slipped them on. There was a chest of drawers in another corner which held the few folded clothes he used. A deep armchair with an ottoman waited at the other side of the stove, with another of the lighting sconces over it.

He went out the hallway door and stepped into the parlour. He would be comfortable here, though, right now, the empty bookshelves reminded all too much of the personal library he had had to leave behind that night...on the Tower. He refused to think of it as the night he killed the man who had come to mean so much to him.

The knock on the door rescued him from dark thoughts. Carefully, he eased open the door, wand in hand. One could never be too careful.

“Well, get out of the way. Can’t you see my hands are full?”

Snape stepped back to allow Martin in. Not that the goblin’s hands were technically filled; he was magicking behind him a large basket filled with foodstuff, which he directed into the kitchen. Snape leaned against the doorway watching coffee and teas fly onto shelves, bread into its box, jams, butter, milk and a heel of cheese into the cold box.

“The Cook wants me to tell you that this doesn’t excuse you from breakfast. But she fears you’ll wake in the night and might be snappish. When you need replacements or if you want something else, write it down and leave your order in the box at the Dining Hall entry. Just don’t antagonise her by not showing up for meals. You got all that?”

Snape nodded. “Convey my thanks and reassure her that I will most certainly not miss any of her perfectly prepared meals.”

Martin snickered, repeated, “Perfectly,” and left, still chuckling to himself.

Snape closed the door and went to make himself a cup of tea.

As he waited for his tea to stew to the proper blackness, he inspected the provisions. It seemed that his preferences had not gone unnoticed. The jams and cheese were those he favoured. There was even a small container of the biscuits he liked to take with afternoon tea.

He poured himself a mug, took two of the biscuits and went to see if the couch in his parlour was as comfortable as it looked.

The bed proved to be even better than the one he’d had in the Visitors’ Hall; wider, the sheets more smooth against his skin. The number of pillows meant that he could read with ease and so he did, late into the night, perusing the dragon medical journals the Librarian had put aside for him.

He was in the process of putting his kitchen to order, after a long, luxurious bath with a morning cup of tea, when there came a knock on his door.

He opened it no less carefully than the previous night, wand in hand. Which nearly got his visitor hexed when the man grabbed him in a tight hug. Fortunately he noted the red hair before the hex left his lips and stood stiffly in the man’s arms.

“Really, Weasley, what’s got into you?” He knew he was snapping, but he truly was uncomfortable with touch.

Then Charlie made him even more uncomfortable by releasing him only to wipe his eyes on the cuff of his robe.

“Is something wrong?” Had the child died? Katrina? Had something gone horribly wrong? Were his potions to blame?

Charlie looked up at him and shook his head. “No, everything is just perfect. Because of you, Severus, I have a daughter who is healthy, a wife who is well and a family. A family that is mine. All because of you. I can’t thank you enough.”

Snape stepped back, fearful that he would once more be grabbed and hugged. He slipped his wand back into its sheath and shrugged, non-chalantly, as though he did not feel a certain pleasure that his skills were being recognised.

“A few potions, that’s all it was, Charlie.”

Charlie shrugged and leaned a shoulder against Snape’s front door. He’d caught Snape’s discomfort at being held. Well, too bad, the man was just going to have to accept the fact that there were people who wanted to hug him. Katrina for one, her parents for another. He refused to think how his parents would react, but then they were far away and all that concerned them was the fact that they had a grand-daughter, not the why. They...well, not his father, but his mother had certainly never really approved of his wedding another Dragon Rider.

“Well, they worked. I have a beautiful daughter because of you, Severus. And Katrina and I thank you for her.”

Snape shrugged again, but Charlie could tell that he was pleased. Maybe for the Brewer these potions had just been a common every-day brew, but the consequences were phenomenal for those who had put them to use.

“The Healer says that only family should visit, but he says you should be able to visit the fruit of your labours. Katrina and I would be honoured if you’d come for tea this afternoon.”

Snape chewed on his bottom lip. He was not all that interested in babies. They made him itch and he never knew what to say. To him, they looked like drowned rats at first and their cries and smells made him want to be as far away from one as he possibly could. He’d had to pretend to enjoy a few too many visits with Baby Draco when Lucius had finally proven his virility. Narcissa, like Dragon Riders, had had a hard time bearing, once she had conceived. Lucius liked to place all the blame on her, but Snape had often wondered how inbreeding had affected Malfoy sperm count, not that he had dared even mention the idea.

Charlie cocked his head. “Not that keen on babies, are you?” He chuckled. “Not to worry. Katrina’s parents are arriving later this morning and they’ll coo and ahh enough for the entire compound. She’s their only child, you know. Katrina’s mother is a Dragon Rider as well. Just a look, a cup of tea and I promise you can escape back to your Hall.”

Then he offered his hand and Snape hesitantly took it. Not a hug, just a shake. But a firm one and two handed on Charlie’s part. “Thank you, Brewer.”

And Snape did not doubt the sincerity of his words.

He did go for tea. The child was no more, no less rat-like than those of her ilk. But he didn’t have to hold her or say anything. Katrina’s father, a burly breeder not of dragons but of hippogriffs, handed him a glass of fire-whiskey that took his breath away and offered him a cigar that they smoked outside in the pale autumn sun.

The upshot of the child’s birth was that a couple of the younger female Dragon Riders came to see him and wondered should they happen to conceive, would he prepare the same potions for them as he had for Katrina?


	5. Five by Josan

He came across the dog one morning as he neared his Hall door. It wasn’t hard to miss the animal, he just had to follow the blood splatters on the snow to the huddled, whimpering, rust-stained mound that was hiding to the side of the Hall.

Obviously, it had been in a fight, and just as obviously, had not been the winner. A matter for the Healer, but as Snape had heard at breakfast, the wizard was off somewhere inside the Reserve.

With a sigh, Snape levitated the animal into the Hall and onto one of the tables he used for working.

It was a dragon dog, young, but much smaller than the usual ones he’d seen hanging around the dragon pens. The Keepers liked them as their presence tended to calm nervy dragons. In fact, they had been bred for that purpose. They were fast on their feet - an advantage around large, clumsy taloned feet – and the pads of their paws could secrete a sticky substance which allowed them to walk around a dragon’s body with ease, even to sit on its shoulders when flying. Should they bond with a dragon, they usually became part of the Rider’s family, though their loyalty was to the dragon rather than the human. There had been cases of the dog turning on the Rider when it thought the dragon was at risk.

They were fairly large animals, the size of a labrador or retriever, light boned, with a pointed muzzle, bright black eyes and alert, pointed ears at one end, a large, feathery tail at the other. Their pelts were double layered, with a short, dense growth nearer the skin intermingled with longer, lighter hairs. Usually a bronze-rust colour, there were some variants in hue, some lighter, some darker. They were ferocious when on the defensive and fairly tolerant of man.

This one was about half the size of the dogs which Snape had seen around the dragon pens. One of its ears was torn, the tip completely gone. It had gashes on its sides and haunches – it had certainly run away from its attacker – and a back leg that was a little shorter than the other three, the result of an old break, which indicated that the dog was older than Snape had originally thought. Not a pup, but fully grown.

Snape did his best with the medical spells he knew and then transfigured a bed from an empty crate, nestling it with a few empty ingredients sacs that he kept around for cleaning purposes. The animal whimpered pathetically the entire time he worked on it, but settled into the bed with a soft sigh and slept from the potions that Snape had administered.

“Oh, the Runt,” growled the Secretary when Snape reported the animal to the Directress’s office. “Should have been drowned at birth. The Breeder usually does that with runts. But his youngest was very ill then and she wanted it.”

“Why doesn’t she want it now?” Snape growled back.

“Dead. Died a couple of months before you got here. Guess he hasn’t got around to dealing with the animal yet.”

Snape refused to hand the dragon dog over to the Breeder. The Directress had to get involved. She entered the Brewer’s house with some worry. The dog was too small to be of use either as a breeding animal or as a dragon dog. He’d already been stepped on once, hence the shorter leg.

“Then find him a home,” snarled her Brewer.

She shook her head. “Dragon dogs do well on a reserve but they’re considered to be dangerous off it. They bond only to dragons.”

Snape looked down at the animal cowering, belly to the floor, behind him. He glared at the Directress. “I challenge that. This one doesn’t seem dangerous in the least.”

She looked down at the animal whose head peered around the Brewer’s slippers. Its tail was wrapped around those slippers. For a moment she thought she saw in those black eyes the same look her Brewer’s had worn when he’d first got here.

“You need to understand that they can’t leave the Reserve. We can move them from one reserve to another to prevent inbreeding, but...”

“Why can’t someone here take him in then?”

She shrugged. “You patched up the why. Once a dog enters a household, it won’t allow another in. Not of the same sex. And a female won’t breed with a male she finds inferior. Not that they breed any more easily than do Riders. And the abortion rate is as high for them as it is for witches.” She suddenly wondered if... Anything that helped tie this Brewer further to the Reserve.

“He seems to have taken a fancy to you, Brewer. Why don’t you keep him?”

He was outright stunned. The thought of his having to deal with the animal had most certainly not entered his mind. “I wouldn’t know how... I’ve never...”

“Not even a familiar?”

Snape shook his head. Growing up, there had been money for his father’s drinking, not for familiars.

“Well, it’s that or the drowning bucket for him.” She shrugged negligently, though her eyes watched him closely. “Your choice.”

Snape sat down on the couch and stared at the animal who had followed him, to sit as close to his feet as possible without being actually on them.

“The Breeder will provide the proper feed. And I’m certain Marise will be more than happy to provide you with the occasional bone.”

She said nothing as his hand slowly slipped to the top of the dog’s head to scratch gently between the ears. The animal seemed to understand and whimpered enthusiastically. Its long tongue reached up to lick the bared wrist.

“He’ll need a name,” Snape spoke softly.

She sat in the armchair and smiled; one more tie to the Reserve for her Brewer. “He will. What are you going to call him?”

He didn’t look up from the animal who was now trembling with excitement. She wasn’t particularly fond of dogs. On the whole she thought them to be not all that bright, but now and then, one appeared that could match wits with its dragon. Pity this one was so runty because it was obviously very bright. Mind, from what she’d heard about this man and his temper, maybe it had just found itself a dragon in human form?

Snape peered up at her from behind the fringe of hair that she’d readily noted he used as a shield. “Albus. I’m going to call him Albus.”

She pursed her lips. “Out of love or out of a need to self-flagellate?” She wasn’t interested in his past unless it affected his functionality on her Reserve. She wanted him to leave it behind, and she wasn’t certain this name might not prevent that.

He straightened and looked from her to the dog then back to her. “Out of both, to an extent, I suppose. But more from the former than for the latter. Albus Dumbledore was a friend, probably one of my only friends, and I miss him.”

“Would he approve?”

“Of the name or the dog?”

She shrugged. Snape patted the animal again and it leaned happily against his legs.

“Both. He’d be delighted at the name and would have probably carried treats in his pockets for the creature.” He looked her in the eyes. “It is a good name and one I remember with fondness.”

“Then Albus it...he will be recorded. I’ll let the Breeder know. You’d better keep him close for the foreseeable future. The other dogs will need to understand he belongs to someone and then they’ll leave him alone unless he enters their territory.”

Albus, Snape determined, would sleep in his bed in the kitchen.

Albus had other ideas.

Two hours of hearing the animal howl plaintively at the kitchen door finally forced Snape into dealing with the situation.

“All right. Tonight only. Just so that you know you belong in this house.” He accioed the bed into his bedroom, lowering it to the other side of the stove. He waited until the dog had settled into it before turning down the lights and finding his own once more.

When the nightmare began and he struggled to wake, a warm wetness streaked his face. Even in sleep, Snape knew the wetness was not tears, but rather something soothing. He turned and let his arm rest on the mound that had arisen next to him. With a sigh, he slipped back into a calming rest.

In the morning, he woke to find Albus snuggled up as close to him as possible, his head on Snape’s chest, Snape’s own arm keeping him in place.

Every night for the next week, Albus began the night in his bed but ended up in Snape’s. After the week, Snape plain gave up and allowed the animal to find a place on the bed once he’d got in.

Albus kindly didn’t gloat though Snape was certain the dog would have had he been able to talk.

[:]:]:]

 

The Reserve did not close down for Christmas. Dragons, on the whole, did hibernate for part of the winter, even the Southern breeds, but only some had already done so by Yuletide. So Christmas was a compound affair. Festive boughs and wreaths appeared everywhere, even on the door of the Brewer’s Hall.

Snape glared at the wreath, decided it wasn’t worth taking off – it was not as garish as some of the others that decorated outer doors – and watched the festivities from as far away as he was allowed.

Marise had prepared a traditional feast and that he didn’t mind partaking in, since he was seated at the table with Charlie, Katrina and Wylda Liuba. Snape wondered what the elder Weasleys thought of the name of their newest grandchild. Wild love. Nothing very British about it, favouring her mother’s Teutonic blood.

The child was well behaved, he had to give her that. She slept through the meal, opening her eyes only when the musical portion of the evening began. Now nearly two months old, the child had the most uncanny way of looking at people. Snape thought that perhaps it would be proved that she was aptly named. There was something disconcerting about that look, as though she knew one’s secrets and found them funny.

Albus thought her fascinating and she was quite taken with him, the few times Katrina or Charlie had brought the child to the Hall for whatever reason.

He took advantage of the sing-along to slip out of the Dining Hall and return to his house, Albus at his feet. So he was surprised when, later on, as he was thinking of retiring, there came a knock on his door.

The Directress, dressed for riding, smiled at him. As she stepped into the hallway, she handed him a bundle. “Change into these. Albus will have to stay behind, as he hasn’t a dragon.”

Snape stared at the clothing and boots that had been wrapped in what he recognised as a Visitor’s cloak, fur-lined dragonskin.

“Madam?”

She made herself comfortable on his couch. “Hurry. The night’s going to waste. Oh, and braid your hair back, so it doesn’t get in the way.”

He sighed and knew better than to challenge her. Albus remained behind, watching her.

The room showed more of his personality than it had when last she’d been here. More books on the shelves. She knew that he’d placed several orders through the Bursar, who knew how to get the best price for anything. And the clothing he wore was now his own. He’d returned to the Steward what had been provided for him on his arrival.

The place had a more lived-in feeling to it. There were scrolls on the desk, a container of quills and a small pile of books. She could see a red ball in one corner and a hint of a bone peering out from under the ottoman, which was covered with an old blanket, heavily dusted with rust-bronze hairs.

Albus jumped up on the couch next to her and graciously permitted her to scratch between his ears. The Runt was rather friendly for a dragon dog. Or was it just that her scent could still be found in the walls and floors, and he was used to it? After all, she had lived here some forty years.

“What is this for?”

She looked at the man dressed in the clothing of a Dragon Rider. They did him well, especially since he wasn’t as skeletal as he’d been on arriving. Marise was well pleased with how he was filling out. He’d never be anything other than a slim man, but now his bones were far less noticeable.

“It’s the first clear night after Solstice, Brewer. It’s the last night all the Dragon Riders fly in the old year.”

“I am not a Dragon Rider.”

She laughed as she got to her feet. “No. But you are the Dragons’ Brewer. Time for you to know what that entails, other than the brewing. Call it a fringe benefit, if you prefer.”

He didn’t look very convinced. Too bad. He was joining them tonight. It would do him good.

They Apparated to the site where her dragon resided, Snape carrying the Visitor’s cloak over a shoulder.

“We keep the Hebrideans here.”

There were five of them, Snape counted, staying as close to her as possible. The creatures were massive, some thirty feet in length, with spiked tails that Snape didn’t doubt made good weapons.

“Here we are.”

The largest and longest of the five. Of course.

At the sound of her voice, a head rose to peer over a shoulder. The moon and star-lit sky were reflected in eyes that Snape knew were the deep purple of a very old Hebridean Black. Its whiskers, eyebrows and eyelashes were silvery white against the jet-black of its scales.

The Directress strode over to the head to scratch the creature under the chin. “Beathan Magnus, may I present to you the Brewer. He’s the one who put together that potion that dulled the ache in your belly last month. You remember?”

The great head turned to look at him and Snape was ready to swear the beast understood every word she uttered.

“Yes, that meal of rotting venison you served yourself on that little flight you took to stretch your wings.” The dragon snorted softly...in protest? The Directress laughed as she patted the dragon hard on the chest. “Getting too old for those sweet pleasures, my handsome lad.”

As she’d been speaking to the dragon, a Keeper had come up with a saddle-type contraction that he cinched with wand and skill over the animal’s back. Snape noted that the underside of the saddle was formed to fit over the ridges that delineated the dragon’s back.

It was only when the Directress gestured for him to climb up that Snape noticed the saddle was double seated.

“Goggles,” said the Keeper, handing Snape a pair before indicating, “The front one,” then helping him up over to the saddle with a Mobilis.

Snape settled himself in the saddle, wrapping the cloak around his shoulders and over his lap while Madam Directress clambered over the Hebridean into her place. She made certain he was properly strapped in – “Doesn’t do to lose Visitors who pay through the nose for this treat.” – cast a warming then a breathing spell on both of them and, accepting the reins from the special head harness, whistled sharply. “Come, my lad, my Beathan, let us away.”

The dragon ambled to the edge of the mountain. Snape found himself holding on tightly to the saddle horn, wondering if he would truly disgrace himself by vomiting from the side-to-side motion that reminded him all too much of a certain sail over a stormy sea on his way to Azkaban.

Then, when the dragon hesitated and he had time to see that beyond the launch point there was nothing but black under them, he found himself wondering who would care for Albus while they hunted for their remains among whatever crags and rocks lay below.

The thick haunches of the creature bunched up and with a heavy grunt, it jumped. Snape wanted to close his eyes but felt that he should meet Death with his eyes open. So that he actually saw the great wings unfold, the underdraft grabbing hold of them and, with a powerful downbeat, the dragon, with his riders, rose into the star-spotted blackness of the cloudless sky.

“All right?”

He turned his head slightly and tried to find the breath to answer. He gave up and just nodded. Through some miracle of dragon magic, they were not crashing down on deadly rocks but joining others in the night ride.

It took him several minutes to relax enough to breathe normally; a few more to be aware that he was capable of breathing normally at this height. Then several more to notice that they were rising even higher and higher, leaving behind the light and colour of the Earth.

It was cold, growing colder as they rose, but between the cloak and the spells, he was comfortable enough. Other than the sound of air beaten by those massively long wings, there was silence.

It took him a certain amount of time to notice that there was a kind of peace to that silence.

Calm.

Beautiful.

So very beautiful, it took his breath away.

The stars seemed to be within hand’s reach and Snape found himself releasing his death grip on the saddle horn, catching himself from actually reaching for the tiny lights in the sky.

He wondered if this was old hat for the Directress and turned to ask it of her. The expression on her face was answer enough. She smiled happily at him, looking at that moment to his eyes to be as young as Katrina, and he nodded back.

They were not alone. There were other dragons and their Riders in the general area, but all were respectful of the others’ space and of the silence. They flew, scarcely discernible shadows against the night sky, dancing solos to the barely hearable music of the beat of dragons’ wings.

Once, they were passed by a lighter dragon, lighter in size and in colour, and its Rider raised a hand in greeting to them. Snape raised his in return, recognising the Vipertooth as Charlie Weasley’s, though he couldn’t make out the features of the Rider.

The Vipertooth was a little more flamboyant in its flying. It looped and twirled, tuning sharply while their dragon was mercifully more sedate. Or so Snape thought until it had reached a height where it turned suddenly and plunged into a dive that had Snape clinging with all his strength to the saddle horn and praying he would not embarrass himself by shrieking, or wetting himself. It was close, but just as he thought he might let go, with a scream at the very least, the dragon swooped up and used an updraft to bring them back up again.

“Well done, Brewer. Beathan may be old, but on a night like this, the infant rises in him. Don’t worry, you’re well strapped in. We can’t afford to lose Visitors. We, Beathan and I, have been doing this together for more years than you’ve lived, Brewer. Trust us.”

The approval – more than the reassurance – warmed him so that the next time the bloody beast dove, Snape held on, prayed, but kept his eyes open as well he could against the images of splattering on the mountains that were approaching far too quickly for his sense of comfort. The third time, Snape kept his eyes on the dragon’s head and went along, not relaxed, but certainly not as tense as the previous times.

The creature took pity on him after that. It contented itself with a few rolls, an occasional swoop or twirl. By the time the dragon went into a loop, Snape was at ease enough to enjoy the sensations of the starlight streaking, the air whipping past, the darkness wrapping itself around them.

At some point he realised that the sky was never lit up with dragon flame. He turned his head and the Directress leaned towards him.

“No flames?”

She shook her head. “Only for defense or when they’re angry or frightened. This is sheer joy for them.”

And the feeling was catching. Snape found himself relaxing, trusting to great beast and its Rider, no longer caring of the distance to the ground, but only of the beauty of the night, of a warmth that arose within him that he couldn’t name.

At some point, the other Hebrideans joined them, flying in a sort of formation, with Beathan Magnus at the forefront. Snape looked to either side, aware of the heads that were well within flame’s reach, but strangely not worried. This was not a night for worry. Or for fear.

They were far above ground, far away from the problems and troubles of man. Here in the wide, open sky, those were too little, too unimportant to require any consideration.

Snape leaned back, rested his hands on his lap and felt himself become part of the night.

The descent began with the lightening sky. As the dragon gradually rode the currents down, the blackness was slowly replaced with a charcoal then a purplish-grey. Leaving the upper limits of the sky, Snape could feel the reality of Earth reach up for him and it saddened him. Except, when the clearer lines of the mountains grew into focus, he suddenly realised that those realities were less invasive, less demanding. Less important.

The great beast coasted slowly to its landing field, as reluctant, Snape thought, to end the flight as he was. Its landing was not smooth, the jarring helping him to realise that they were on solid ground, no longer in the vast freedom of the night sky.

The Keeper helped him down with another Mobilis and offered him an arm when he staggered on finding his feet. As the Keeper led the Hebridean away from the landing field, the Directress came up to Snape. “Can you find your own way back?”

Snape nodded. He’d Apparated between the house and the Hall when he’d had a load of material to bring with him.

“I won’t be around for a few days,” she added. “Beathan needs to be looked over before settling down for his winter’s sleep.”

“To whom do I return the clothing?”

She looked at him, at her Brewer, whose eyes were more alive than she’d seen, bright with the excitement of this night’s ride. More peaceful as well. She smiled at him. “Keep them. You never know.”

She turned and followed the ambling hulk that was her dragon. Snape didn’t leave right away. He remained behind, out of the way, to watch the other dragons as they landed. They were beautiful, majestic creatures and he wondered that he, who had inhabited a prison cell only some months earlier, had been privileged to have participated in such a night’s activity.

It was long past dawn when he Apparated home, to Albus who was waiting for him at the door, tail sweeping the floor, happy to have him back, wanting to hear all about his adventures.

[:]:]:]


	6. Six by Josan

By the end of January, all of the dragons were in their nests or dens, sleeping. They would do so, on average, for six weeks, waking in time for spring. February was vacation time for the human inhabitants of the Reserve.

The Healer, after many months of discussion with his wife – “Outright nagging, I tell you, Brewer!” – was going on a month-long vacation of visiting sons and daughters who lived far away from the Reserve. His wife had insisted on their not being contacted for any reason on threat of divorce. Every time they’d gone anywhere in the past, the Healer had used any excuse to return to the Reserve. “Feel like a bloody idiot away from the place,” confided the Healer. “But the wife met with the Directress and she’s arranged for an emergency Healer from the Federation to be available should the need arise. Damn them.”

Charlie and Katrina were off to the Burrow to show off their daughter. Snape sensed that Katrina was not as keen on the visit as Charlie was.

“No, she’s not,” sighed Charlie. “But it’s only fair. Her parents were here for the first month of Wylda’s life. But I understand her. They are far more accepting of our ways and lifestyle than my mother is. Mum couldn’t understand why Katrina kept on being a Rider after she lost our first child. And being Mum, she wasn’t reticent in saying so. But I want the others to meet our child and I promised Katrina that we’d visit them away from the Burrow as much as we could, to give her breathing space.”

Snape said nothing. Molly Weasley was not his favourite person, not by a long shot, and he had never been one of hers. Less so after Dumbledore.

Charlie glanced into the cauldron Snape was stirring. He turned his head to ask, “Anything you want while we’re over there? Something from Hogsmeade? Diagon Alley?”

Snape shook his head. What he needed, the goblins were very good at finding for him. Mind...

“Will you by any chance be visiting Hogwarts?”

Charlie grinned. “Think I could bring a child of mine to Britain and not show her off to Minerva? Is there something you want from Hogwarts?”

Snape stared into the cauldron. “I... When I was forced to flee...”

After killing Dumbledore was left unsaid.

“My books. If you can be discreet and if it doesn’t get you into any trouble...”

“You’d like me to bring them back?”

Snape sighed loudly. “I doubt that they’re still in Hogwarts. I assume that my rooms were cleared after... But if you could inquire as to where they were stored, or sold...”

Charlie nodded. “I’ll see what I can find out.”

And so, with only a skeleton staff left at the Reserve, life settled to a quiet routine.

Snape used the time to stockpile the Healer’s basic potions. He couldn’t believe the amount of digestive remedies they went through. No matter how much he produced, they were always running out. It would seem that dragons ate anything that moved and sometimes not.

He experimented with the burn ointment the Riders and Keepers used. He read up on the particularities and peculiarities of all the breeds that lived on the Reserve. He and Albus went for long walks on the nice days, so that the other dogs would know that the Runt belonged to someone and was not to be attacked for any reason. A few encounters with his wand re-enforced the lesson for the especially stubborn ones.

The Keepers who had remained behind were using the time to clean out the pens, so that when they caught sight of a dragon erratically making its way towards them, they were all taken by surprise.

The beast barely made it to the landing pad when it collapsed.

“It’s Zmejuka! She’s torn up! And not recently. The wounds look badly infected.”

All those who were there came running up to deal with the dragon breathing fire at anyone who tried to approach her.

The Directress, who just happened to have returned from two weeks of meetings at Federation headquarters, shook her head.

“Damn it all to hell! We can’t stun her. Not with her magic fluctuating the way it is.”

“Not that we can even on a good day,” muttered the Breeder. “What happened to her? I can’t get close enough, but it looks like she’s broken that front left leg. I think I saw bone, but it’s hard to be certain with all that infection in the wound. And her eye. She may be blind...”

“Wings torn as well,” coughed a Keeper who had got a little too close to her and barely been able to evade a plume of flame. “Gouges in her side. Left more than right. Looks like she’s fallen somehow and couldn’t protect herself.”

“Just what the hell was she doing out of her den at this time of the year?” The Breeder was trying to get a good look at her, but the smoke from her flaming made it particularly difficult.

“I can’t get hold of the Healer who’s supposed to be available,” reported Glowaki, scowling. “Seems he’s dealing with a crisis on his own Reserve.”

“Where’s Zmejuka’s Ivan?”

The Directress grimaced. “With his family. I can’t contact him according to the contract that was made between the Reserve and the Russian Ministry.” She turned to her Breeder. “Suggestions?”

He shrugged. “You know what she’s like. If we try to approach her while she’s like this, it’ll be suicide. If we try to stun her, we’re just as likely to kill her as knock her out. That infection’s been there for a while. Her blood is probably poisoned by now. Even if we could help her, who knows what effect it would have?”

“Can you distract her?”

They all looked around to find the Brewer watching the dragon.

“What are you planning, Brewer?”

Snape shrugged. “I have potions that can help her, but not unless they are in her or on her. And I know some spells that could be put to use. At least on some of her injuries.”

“You’re going to tend to her?” The Directress couldn’t keep the surprise out of her voice.

He heard mistrust. He blanched and his eyes went hard. “You don’t trust me with her.”

“Brewer! I would trust you with my life! But I don’t trust her with yours. She is an important dragon to this Reserve, but she is not the only Ironbelly and you are our only Brewer.”

She saw the stiffness leave his spine as he shrugged again. “Keep her from flaming me and I’ll see what I can do.”

Easier said than done, but eventually, they managed to get her attention focused on several Keepers, dressed from head to toe in protective garments.

Snape had refused to change; in fact, in spite of the cold, he’d stripped down to trousers and shirt. “I need mobility and all that layering won’t permit it. You’ll have to keep her occupied.”

“Stun her if you have to,” the Directress ordered the Breeder and those who were gathered.

The Breeder nodded grimly.

Snape watched as they tried to do as he’d asked. He went deep within himself, as he had when Summoned, pushing aside thoughts of survival and focusing on the job to be done.

When it was obvious that the situation was as good as it would get, he took a deep, calming breath and went up to the Ironbelly.

She was huge, close to the six tons Ironbellies were at maturity. The talons on her feet could rip a rival’s belly open with one blow. Zmejuka had a reputation of being difficult at the best of times, and this was anything but a good time.

The Breeder was right. The left leg was indeed broken and the bone had penetrated muscle and skin, shearing the area even more when she’d used it. It would need to be reset before he could begin work on spelling the wound clean and healed.

That got her attention. It was only the fact that he was so close to her belly that saved him from the plume of flame that nearly grazed his side.

“Stop that!” Snape shouted, in his best potions classroom voice.

She raised her head, turned it to one side to get a good look at the human causing her more pain. As she went to open her mouth, as the Keepers got ready to stun her, Snape leaned over the damaged leg to glare into that eye.

“I...said...stop...it.”

The dragon hesitated. Snape glared even more.

“What the...” The Directress watched in awe as a staring match ensued, between one of her most temperamental dragons and her Brewer.

“I am going to repair the damage you inflicted upon yourself, you bloody beast,” he growled at her. “Otherwise, you’re going to lose this leg and that eye. So sit still and let me work. And stop flaming the others. I need you quiet.”

“Nom de dieu...” Marise, wand out, ready to spell, came to stand by the Directress.

“You can say that again,” the Directress muttered.

Zmejuka settled, her good eye on the Brewer as he worked on the leg. If someone else tried to approach, she would turn her head and open her mouth, ready to flame.

The tension in the compound was equaled only by the silence of the watchers. So that in the stillness, they could hear the Brewer as he spoke to the dragon, explaining what he was doing and why, all the time chastising her as though she were some student of his who had done something stupid.

“You should have come here as soon as this happened,” Snape shook his head. “Too bloody stubborn for your own good, Dragon.”

He’d brought a box of items with him, of potions to augment the spells he was using. He reached in and pulled out a long, thin blade. “You’re not going to like this,” he glared at her, “but the flesh is too corrupted.”

The dragon made a growl of protest that had everyone pointing their wands once more, not that they had done much more than allow them to sag a little.

Snape glowered at the dragon and snapped, “You would prefer gangrene? We could always cut off the leg right now.”

“Epona! She understands what he’s telling her!” The Directress wondered just what kind of powers her Brewer actually had.

It was not easy work, nor quick. By the time the Brewer had done with the leg to his satisfaction – cutting away rotten flesh, cleaning the wound, mending the bone then finishing up with the few other healing spells he knew, then liberally anointing it with some ointment and wrapping it up with a protection spell – everyone in the compound was soaking wet. So much so that their bodies steamed lightly in the cold air.

“All right,” grumbled Snape. “I’ll deal with the other injuries now and then the eye.”

The Directress wanted to tell him to forget it, but was afraid that if she spoke, she would upset the delicate balance her Brewer had with the dragon.

Those other injuries were dealt with quickly and with an efficacy that allowed them all to breathe a little more easily. These were to the side and Zmejuka seemed to have lost interest in the procedure. It was only when Snape approached her head that the tension ratcheted up. He was too near her mouth for any Stun spell to have time to work before she fried him.

“I need to see that eye, Dragon. So lower your head and let me look at it.”

It seemed to the watchers that the dragon was taking her time thinking about that.

“Brewer,” said the Directress, in as normal a tone as possible, “leave it be.”

He ignored her. “Well, Dragon?”

She lowered her head until her injured eye was about his chest level.

“What do we do?” whispered Marise.

“Pray,” rasped the Directress, through a dry throat.

As he worked on her eye, always talking, they became aware that he was also speaking to them. “Again, would someone please go and fetch a small melon, and hollow it out without breaking it, and some of whatever fruit she likes as a treat.”

“Oranges,” said Marise as she turned and very quietly, so as not to distract the Brewer nor the dragon, stepped back until she was out of sight then Apparated to get what the Brewer had requested.

“Melon and oranges here, Brewer,” she said on her return.

“Leave them on the ground. Now, Dragon, whatever you do, do not lick this ointment off your eye. I’ve dealt the lid as best I can and I think once the wound truly heals, you’ll be able to see out of that eye. Accio melon.”

Into the slit made when it was hollowed out, he poured several vials of different coloured potions.

“You won’t like the taste of these, but they’re to rid your blood of any poisons. If you can, swallow the melon whole.”

She didn’t and the roar of dislike had everyone on the edge of their nerves yet again. But, other than a small plume of smoke that exited her nostrils, roar was all she did.

“Accio oranges! Here. Eat these. Should take the taste away.”

He fed her the six oranges Marise had brought then, one by one, his hand far too close to her mouth for anyone’s comfort. Then, to everyone’s amazement, in this day of amazements, as he went to leave, the Brewer reached up and rubbed his hand against her right ear. She lowered her head so he could reach it more easily.

“Good Dragon. Now sleep and let the potions do the work they need to do.”

As he stepped back, she did just that. Zmejuka rolled slightly over onto her right side, her injured leg straight out, rested her head on her good right leg, and with a sigh that sent more smoke out of her nostrils, closed her good eye and went to sleep.

They were so entranced by her behaviour that they didn’t notice the Brewer’s right away.

It was the sound of someone vomiting that got Marise to turn around.

“Directress!”

Snape was grey, his face grimaced in pain, as he staggered away.

“Breeder, see to Zmejuka. Once you’re certain she’s truly asleep, cover her up with hay and straw. Find a tarp or something to offer her protection from the weather. We won’t be able to move her and she must be kept warm.”

It was a measure of the Breeder’s concern that he didn’t take her head off for telling him what was obvious.

By then, she’d followed the Cook who had taken off after the Brewer.

She found them in the Brewer’s Hall, Marise supporting the Brewer as he vomited into a bucket that was by the door.

“He’s in pain, lots of pain,” gasped the Cook as she held him through another onslaught.

“What the hell...why?”

Snape sat back on his heels and tried to breathe so that his stomach would not rebel. His eyes were closed against the light and he wanted nothing more than to die. Even dealing with Voldemort and his chatisements had been easier than this pain.

“Brewer...Snape!”

“Not so loud!” whispered Marise, but it resounded in his head like thunder.

He needed to explain, for them to get him the right potions. He opened his mouth but all that came out was the bile that remained in his stomach.

It took him several tries to get out, “Le..le..gi..li...men...cy...”

The women were stunned. “Legilimency? With a dragon?”

“He..head hur...ts.”

He could hear them rummaging in his cupboards. He tried to tell them that the potions he needed were in his bathroom cabinet up at the house, but he was blind, deaf and speechless from the pain in his head that kept on getting worse. He wanted to scream so that when the blackness hit him, he sank into it with relief.

“What did you do?”

“Quiesceris. It should keep him asleep long enough for me to contact the Federation Healer who came for Chudo-Udo’s Katrina.”

“Legilimency with a dragon. Can that truly be done?” Marise accioed a blanket from the chair and covered the Brewer with it. He may have been asleep, but, from his soft moans, it was obvious that the pain was not letting go.

“There is mind contact between a Rider and a dragon, but that is more because the dragon lets us in, not that we force it onto the dragon. Zmejuka is not one to allow just anyone in. Ivan was the only one of the Riders who tried that she accepted. And he has to struggle with her far too often. No, if he contacted her mind, he had to fight her and a dragon in pain and afraid as she was, it was no easy task. Where the hell would he keep the potions for humans?”

The Federation Healer showed up reluctantly and only under pressure from the Head of Federation Healers. She was attending the birth of a high-level dignitary and arrived by Floo, which had to be set up in the Brewer’s Hall for the occasion.

She glanced at the man lying on the floor and diagnosed a migraine, ignoring the Directress’s insistence that the man had performed Legilimency on an injured dragon. There was no record of that ever being done and really, every Director thought their people had special powers which never could be proven. She recommended certain potions, then shrugged when the Directress indicated that she had no idea where these could be found. “That’s why you have your own Brewer and Healer. How should I know where they keep these potions? Well, I’ll send you some. For the moment, get him into his bed and keep him warm. Give him the potions when they arrive, in the order I will indicate and maybe you should organise your potions in a better manner so that I am disturbed only for real emergences. Now, if you will excuse me, I have a birth I must attend.”

“Bitch,” muttered the Directress. Somehow, she had to find a Human Healer for her Reserve.

They used Mobilcorpus to move the Brewer to his house. Those who had nothing to do with the dragon, came to offer their help.

Marise got Snape’s clothing off him, tsked over the bones she thought were still far too apparent, grimaced at the scars that littered his body before dressing it with the nightshirt she’d found behind the bathroom door. Albus had refused to leave his master’s side once they’d got him in through the front door. Now he settled at the side of the bed, as if knowing that any movement that jarred Snape’s head made him moan.

The potions finally arrived and the Directress herself got the first dose down his throat. For a minute or two, they feared they were going to come right back up, but eventually, they were able to take a breath and allow Snape to lie back down.

“I’ll stay with him,” announced Marise. “He shouldn’t be left alone.”

“I need to go check on Zmejuka and see if I can contact the other Healer.”

“Why not ours?”

The Directress sighed. “Because his wife wasn’t fooling about the divorce. She pointed out that in the last fifty-two years, whenever they’ve left the Reserve, they’ve been called back. She’s tired of that. She’s willing to put up with the fact that he’s out at all hours of the day or night when they’re here, that the dragons come before her and the children, now the grandchildren, but she wants their time away to be that. And if she does leave him, it will destroy him. He still loves her with that first passion of youth after nearly seventy years of marriage. And if he has to choose between the Reserve and his love, I don’t think we’ll win, not in the long run.”


	7. Seven by Josan

He woke slowly, through the dense fog that still inhabited his brain.

“Easy now. Just swallow.”

He felt a hand slip under his head to brace it as he was gently raised. He went to open his mouth when he caught a whiff of whatever it was they were giving him. He turned his head to the side. “Not mine,” he gasped.

“No. We couldn’t find yours.”

He had to think a moment. “Bathroom. Cabinet. Top shelf. Blue bottle.”

His head was allowed to settle on the pillow and he heard footsteps, a door opening and then the hand was back. This time, when he sniffed, it was the right potion, one that he had made. He swallowed it eagerly, knowing it would deal with the pounding in his head, the sensitivity to light and the hollow feeling in his stomach.

It didn’t take long. His potions were very effective. Still, when he propped himself up on his elbows and went to raise himself up into a seated position, it was with eyes closed. The hand that piled pillows behind him was most welcome, though he didn’t say so.

He rested back against the support and sighed, slowly opening his eyes to see who had been helping him.

“Madam Directress.”

“Brewer. Welcome back.”

The room was dark, with only a dim light by the chair which had been pulled up to the foot of his bed. Albus moved from where he’d been lying on the carpet, cautiously approaching. Snape reached out a hand and the dog eagerly jumped onto the bed. The jarring made Snape wince, but that was all. Albus butted his head against Snape’s hand, whimpering delightedly when he scratched that particular spot between his ears.

“How long...”

“Two days.”

He looked from Albus to her. “Two...?” Then he remembered. “The dragon?”

“Sleeping deeply, as she should have been all along. The wounds are healing under the potions you administered. Our emergency Healer found the time to visit yesterday and was very complimentary on the work you did. He tweaked the eyelid, more I think for cosmetic reasons than out of necessity.”

She forebore to mention that he had indicated that he wanted to know just what modifications her Brewer had made to the usual medications, as these seemed to be working far better. There were other issues to deal with first.

She raised her wand to her mouth. “Marise. He’s awake.”

Snape caught a hint of something in her tone that made him look at her with a little more care. He tried to think what he might have done to irritate her, all the while covering that up in dealing with Albus’s growing enthusiasm at his waking.

Minutes later, the door of his bedroom opened and the Cook herself walked in, carrying a tray.

The scent of the food made his stomach growl in appreciation – two days? – and he finally asked, “Why didn’t you give me the proper potion when I got ill?”

Marise stopped dead, tray in hand and turned to the Directress. Who merely held up the blue bottle he had sent her for. “Tell me, Brewer, you who labels every potion you produce for the Healer, who has his Hall shelves and cupboards organised by breed and ailment, tell me, man, why there is no label on this bottle? Or, for that matter, on any bottle in your bathroom cabinet?”

She was angry, Snape could tell, even if she hadn’t raised her voice. Worse, from her expression, so was the Cook.

“Never mind. We will continue this discussion tomorrow morning in my office at seven.” She rose and placed the blue bottle on the tray. “Consider yourself confined to the house until then.”

Snape felt a chill run up his spine. “I am under arrest?”

The Directress scoffed. “I’m keeping you out of your Hall and here in order to rest, you bloody idiot.” Her voice was soft, but it didn’t detract from her temper. “If I don’t, I have the strongest feeling that I will find you over a cauldron or down at the pens. You may think your potions are the best in the world, Brewer, and that you feel fine. But until yesterday, you vomited up every sip of water we tried to get into you. And even with the Federation Healer’s potions, you were in pain. Allow your body time to recover.”

She sighed loudly, sounding very much put upon. “I’d order you to keep to your bed...” He glared at her. “But I doubt that would work. In the house, until tomorrow at seven. Don’t be late.”

The tray contained a thick custard and a glass of milk. Not his favourite meal by any means, but considering the way the Cook was watching him, Snape ate the offering. When he was done, he wiped his mouth on the napkin and thanked the Cook as politely as he could.

She scowled. “Well, I suppose you won’t need any of us to stay by your bed now.”

Snape was too surprised to hide it.

“What? You think we could have left you unattended, even for a minute? We thought you might be dying, you were in such pain. The Directress and I took turns with the Librarian. Should you find the time,” Snape winced under her scorn, “do thank her as well.”

“Madam Marise...”

She picked up the tray after purposefully placing the blue bottle on the bed.

“Label these things, will you?” She balanced the tray on one hand and patted Albus on the head with the other as she frowned at the man and shook her head. “I’ll send up another meal later on. And one more before bed. Be certain to eat everything. And stay away from the biscuit tin. You need proper feeding up.”

Seven in the morning, less five minutes, Snape walked into the outer office of the Directress, Albus at his heels. He hated to admit it, but they’d been right. The day he’d spent in the house was the first since he’d been handed the Brewer’s Hall that he hadn’t found a reason to go to it. Mind, had they really needed to post one of the younger goblins at his door? The youth had allowed Albus out for a turn around the yard, but Snape hadn’t even been permitted past the threshold.

Glowacki scowled at him, but no worse than normal. At seven precisely, the goblin went to the inner door. “Dog stays here.”

Snape nodded and Albus settled by the goblin’s desk, eyes on the door Snape passed through.

The Directress’s posture at the window, back to him, reminded him of the times he’d been called to the Headmaster’s office for some misdemeanor or to be assigned detention.

“Well, sit, Brewer.”

He sat. The chair was the same comfortable one that he’d sat in for his interview all those months ago. It had passed through his mind often since she’d ordered him to this meeting, if she was going to dismiss him. Logically, he knew that whatever he’d done to make her angry at him was far less a crime than stealing from the Reserve, but he still feared being turned away from the only place that had accepted him after his release.

She must have known somehow what he’d been thinking. She sighed loudly and took her seat behind the cluttered desk.

“Brewer, are the bottles labelled?”

“Yes, Madam Directress.” He tried for humble and hoped he sounded properly contrite.

“May I ask why they weren’t before?”

Snape wondered what he could say. “I have never had reason to before.”

She scowled. “Are you trying to tell me that you had that potion in your cabinet as a precaution should one day you suffer such a headache?”

Snape fought the need to wriggle. “No, Madam. I have had such migraines before.” Frequently after meeting with a more than usually irrational Voldemort. “Not often,” he hurried to add out of fear she could use this as an added reason to release him. “And certainly not lately.” Not since he’d been released. “But usually, when they did occur, I had time to get to the potion.”

“You, not someone else?”

He shrugged. “I take care of myself, Madam. I always have.”

She sniffed. “Well, no more. You will promise me here and now that any potion in your personal possession will henceforth be labelled and that there will be duplicates placed in the hands of someone,” she held up her hand forestalling his protest, “of your choice, so that should an episode such as this one ever occur again, we will know how to help you.”

Snape did protest. “Madam, my ailments, such as they are, are of my concern. I have labelled all the potions in my house, surely that...”

“Brewer. Have you any idea how frightened we all were at this reaction of yours?”

“Frightened?” Snape was confused. What had he done to frighten them?

She sighed again. “Has no one ever cared about you? Have they only been concerned with your usefulness and not your welfare?”

He blanched then reddened. How could he answer that?

She shook her head. “All right. Enough of this. You will do as I ask. It is to be hoped that this situation never again presents itself but I prefer to err on the side of caution. Now, tell me how you managed to impose Legilimency on a dragon that is beyond stubborn?”

Snape shrugged, happy to move away from the topic of his health.

“She was too much in pain to notice me at first, then she resisted a little but finally understood it was to her benefit.”

The Directress rolled her eyes. “Yes, all so easy. Why you ended up with the mother of all headaches.”

Snape wanted her away from that line of thinking. “It was different,” he went on. “With humans, one can enter the mind with the use of words. With dragons, it’s images more than words.”

“So when you were talking to her, about losing the leg...”

“I imaged her with only three legs, trying to walk. For the eye, I pictured her eyeless. The actual visualising was not that difficult, but I had to remain in contact with her mind and that proved...”

“Harder.”

He shrugged.

“You didn’t happen by any means discover how she got hurt?”

“I think it was that warm day, just at the beginning of the month. She wasn’t fully asleep and the sun woke her. She went for a fly.”

The Directress snorted. “Of course she would.”

“It seems that when she returned, she landed at one of the upper buffs. But what she thought was solid was only a dusting of snow on ice over a mound of snow. It didn’t bear her weight and let go suddenly. She didn’t have time to take flight but landed on the rocks below.”

The Directress didn’t bother asking how Zmejuka had communicated all this. If he could link to her, she obviously could link back. “Did she indicate why it took her so long to get here? Her wings were torn, but not badly enough to prevent flight.”

“I believe her leg was caught and it took her much time to extricate herself.”

“Would explain the break and all the tearing. And since Ivan was gone, there was no one else she could try and contact, since she never has let anyone else in.” She looked at him, eyebrow raised. “Until now”

Snape only shrugged.

The Directress shook her head. “Zmejuka is renown for her stubbornness, Brewer. I think for once she encountered a mind as stubborn as her own. For which I, as Reserve Director, thank you. You went far beyond what anyone could have expected of you, Brewer, at great danger to yourself.” She rose, signalling an end to the interview.

Snape stood up, bowed to her and left as quickly as possible without it seeming that he was running out.

From the window, the Directress watched as her Brewer, Albus at his feet, made his way to the Dining Hall. When the door closed behind them, she Apparated to her place in the Hall.

It was filled with every present member of the Reserve. Who gave him a cheer-filled standing ovation as he entered.

It amused her to see him blush at the praise being heaped upon him by Keepers and Riders, by witches and wizards who were not easily impressed with people who, until so very recently, had never been part of them.

His skills had earned him a place with the People of the Dragons.

His courage, a place in their hearts.

As he was carried up to the head table for a celebratory breakfast on the shoulders of the Breeder and his assistant, the Directress joined her people in applauding and cheering this man who, she now understood, had been the recipient of very little praise or recognition in his life.

[:]:]:]

 

“Zmejuka’s Ivan is back.”

The Directress looked up from the report she was reading. “Late for him. He’s usually back at the stroke of midnight, the first of the new month.”

Her Secretary shrugged.

She sighed. “At the pens?”

Glowacki growled, “Where else should he be?”

She found him, lying full length on the sleeping dragon’s shoulder.

“Zmejuka’s Ivan?”

He looked up, face drawn into lines that she knew would drive Marise to formulating special meals for him. He always returned from this month’s obligation worn and tense, but she’d never seen him this bad.

“I should have been here.”

She shrugged. “As you can see, the situation was handled.”

He rubbed the side of his face against the rough skin. “I won’t be going back ever again.”

She winced. She was not fond of the contract that had been negotiated between the Federation and the Ministry for Russia concerning the youngest son of the far too rich and far too influential Baron Fedor Matveyevich Ryleyev. Zmejuka’s Ivan’s choice of a career had not been acceptable to the Baron and he had caused a fair amount of problems for the Russian Reserve which had taken his son on as an apprentice Rider until the Federation had got involved. The Baron had been a little taken aback to discover just how powerful the Federation was and just how little influence he had with it in the matter of the Reserves. The upshot of the negotiations was that Ivan would be permitted to work as a Rider at a Reserve that was not in Russia – so as not to be a cause for ‘embarrassment’ to the Baron – on the condition that he come and assume his proper place in the Baron’s house for one month of the year.

She didn’t quite understand the purpose of the contract, sensing only that much had been left out of the written portion.

“Ivan...”

“No. You don’t understand. I’ve been disowned. Properly and on paper.” He sat back, head against Zmejuka’s belly. “My mother is dead. She died just after I got there. He refused to contact me earlier, using the contract as his reason. At the reading of the Will... Everyone she mentioned had to be there, in accordance with the Law.”

The Directress nodded.

“We all thought that he had her Will, the one in which he was her sole heir, but it turned out that she’d found a way to write a later one, one which she confided to the wife of the Minister for Magic. It seems that my father’s wealth was based on my mother’s. Many of the properties were in her name, though the profits were his to use as he wished. Under the new Will, which the Minister’s wife, having once been a lawyer, made certain contained no loopholes, all of Mother’s property was to be sold at market value.”

He rubbed his hands over his face.

“To ensure that we would not be short-changed, or that it not be sold into my father’s hands, she assigned as executor of that part of her Will the man who is my father’s main rival. As you can imagine, he was more than delighted to take on the role. He even refused the 10% gratuity that Mother had allowed for his time. All the proceeds of the sales are to be shared between her children and grandchildren, with moneys gifted to certain high-ranking officials in return for their presence at the reading of the Will.”

He laughed and the Directress wondered just how sane he might be.

“In front of all those people he’d wanted to impress, to control, to use, she left him his legacy. One Galleon for every time he beat her and didn’t draw blood. A Sickle for every time he beat her and drew blood. A Knut for every time he beat her to unconsciousness. One Knut for every time he beat one of us children. She’d kept count, you see.”

He closed his eyes and swallowed hard. “That was the unwritten part of the contract. That I should spend February with them in return for his not beating her. At least, so it turned out, not for that particular month.”

He looked up at her. “He fought it, of course. But the Minister was so repulsed by her accounting – she had dates and details and healer reports – that... Well, I think everything was pushed through quickly so that they could have reason to snub him from now on. He is still wealthy, but less so than before. And his reputation is down to that of a wizard whose wife beat him from beyond the grave. He’s on the look-out for a new wife, but he is so determined that we shall get nothing from him that he’s disowned us all. Thank God!”

The Directress bowed her head in agreement, then roughly changed the topic of conversation. “The Brewer is in his Hall. You might like to thank him as well. Oh, and ask him how he managed to work on Zmejuka without being fried. I think you’ll find his explanation interesting.”

It pleased her, the next day, to find that the two men sharing a table over the remnants of the meal and a small stack of books, discussing something with interest and, yes, even enthusiasm. Zmejuka’s Ivan had always been a quiet, morose Rider and seeing him look so alive made her wonder at the changes.


	8. Eight by Josan

“So, I hear you’ve been busy trying to replace the Healer. Really, Severus, haven’t you enough on your hands with the Hall and all the brewing you do?”

Snape looked up from the tome he was exploring in hopes of finding a potion to deal with brittle talons, a condition that affected certain hatchlings and many of the oldest dragons. “Gorynych’s Charlie. Back in one piece, I see.”

Charlie grinned.

“Did you have a good visit?”

Charlie’s laugh was strained. “Well, let’s just say it’s over and leave it at that.” He pulled out a chair from the other side of the table Snape was working at and dropped into it. “I met Zmejuka’s Ivan on the way down here.”

Snape scoffed. “Has the story grown more flames?”

Charlie’s laughter was less strained this time. “Probably. But it’s a fine story, told by a Rider who is more than thankful. Losing one’s dragon is like losing part of one’s self. An important part. He tells me that he wants to learn Legilimency from you. That he thinks it may be a way for more than one Rider to ride a dragon.”

Snape snorted. “Maybe an old one who has been through many Riders, but a young dragon? I doubt it. Still, he is ready to try.”

“And you’re ready to see if it works.”

“Ignoring the aftereffects, the experience itself was interesting.”

Charlie shook his head. “He said you nearly died.”

Snape frowned. “I had a headache. Admittedly a bad one, but as for dying... Zmejuka’s Ivan has a sense of the dramatic. How were your parents?”

“Dad’s well. Mum is Mum. Minerva said to say hello.”

Snape looked wary.

“It’s all right. She was the one who contacted me originally about the possibility of your being exiled. I asked her about the books.”

Snape tried hard not to look too interested. “And?”

“The Aurors went through them and took away what they determined were Dark.”

Snape nodded. He’d expected that.

“As for the rest of them, they were crated up and stored in one of the towers.”

“I’m surprised Pince didn’t jump on them for her library.”

“I couldn’t ask her. You know that she died in the Battle for Hogsmeade?”

No, he hadn’t.

“Well, the house-elves knew which tower held the crate so, without further ado,” Charlie removed a miniaturised crate from his robe pocket and tossed it over to Snape who caught it, mouth open.

Charlie’s grin was catching as well. Snape felt his mouth turn up at the ends, not a usual occurrence as the muscles felt tight. He went to place the small crate on the floor where there was space and despelled it. The crate grew larger and larger until it measured some six feet square.

“This is what’s left over?” wondered Charlie. “How many books did you have in your personal library, Severus?”

Snape shrugged and spelled the top of the crate off. He could barely restrain himself from plunging in while the top moved off to one side. He pulled over a small bench and stood on it, ready to examine his old friends when...

“Oh. No!”

Charlie dragged his chair over to the crate to see what had caused Snape to look as though he were about to weep.

The crate was indeed filled with books. But not whole books. There were covers torn off, and pages torn in half. In the first layer, they couldn’t find one book that had not been ripped apart, its pages Merlin knew where in the crate.

Snape sagged against the side and covered his face with his hands. No wonder the books had not been added to the Hogwarts Library.

Charlie ached for him. “Severus. I don’t think Minerva knew. She never would have sent the crate to you if she had.”

Snape’s voice was muffled through his hands. “Pince knew. She must have been the one to crate this mess. She probably thought she’d have time to repair them at a later date.”

Charlie sighed with relief. “Well, there’s nothing stopping us now from doing so.”

Snape shook his head. “It’s been too long. The Aurors must have done this during or just after Albus’s funeral. It’s been more than five years. There are limits even on magic and what it can do. Even if we could find which pages go with which book. Some of these pages look as though they were torn into four.”

The Directress, accompanied by the Librarian, came to evaluate the situation.

“Bloody hell,” muttered Charlie to her, “if I had known, I never would have brought the crate back with me. Damn it, I knew he was hated, but to do this to his books?”

The Librarian examined several of the remnants. She grimaced, sniffed those in her hands, frowned, ran a finger along the cover she’d found and tasted the residue.

“Well, Njega?”

“I think we need to call in my cousin, the Bookbinder. He’ll be a better judge of the situation.”

The Bookbinder arrived the next day with an assistant and three of his apprentices. Like Njega, he sniffed, tasted, even licked the samples his people pulled out of the crate for him.

He conferred with the Librarian, who then went scurrying off, before going back and retesting several of the samples.

“Right. Well, we need a large place to work in. One with lots of surface.”

They moved the crate into the Dining Hall where they were met by the Librarian and all the other senior goblins. The Bookbinder ignored the Keepers and held a short conference with the Secretary and the Librarian, who then went on to confer with their colleagues.

“It’s this way,” the Bookbinder explained to the Directress. “If we lay everything out so that it doesn’t touch anything else, we may be able to sort everything into some kind of order.”

The Directress nodded.

“Problem is, my services don’t come cheap.”

“How much?” Snape had joined the conversation.

“The Reserve...”

Snape held up his hand. “These are my books and I am responsible for them. How much, Bookbinder?”

The Bookbinder looked at the crate that already was being unloaded by those in attendance, both Keeper and goblin. He muttered and went to confer with the Bursar. The Librarian included herself and, after several minutes of grunts and growls, the Bookbinder returned. “They say they’re willing to help for nothing. But I need to pay my people. So, shall we say...”

And he named an amount that had Snape flinching. He’d kept his spending down to a minimum, banking all that he could. It was almost all he had, but to have his books once more... Besides, his needs were met here at the Reserve and he would be paid again in the next quarter.

“Agreed. The Bursar knows what is in my account and will transfer the amount over to you, if that will do?”

Even with a mixture of wizard and goblin magic, it took several hours to set out the broken books in a manner that satisfied the Bookbinder. Others who had heard of the situation showed up to add their help. Finally, the crate was emptied and sent out, its contents covering every surface in the Dining Hall. The tables, chairs and benches, along with those that had been brought to the Hall, were floating in tiers over a floor completely covered but for some spaces for the goblins. The Bookbinder held a final conference, this time with all the goblins concerned.

Then, with a nod, they all carefully went to take up a position somewhere in the Hall so that all the material was within the reach of their magic.

It was, the Librarian had explained to the Keepers standing outside the doors and windows watching, simple sort magic, developed by some clumsy Gringotts goblin who had dropped far too many armfuls of files and documents. Rather than pick each up and reorder it, he’d developed this spell that the Bookbinder had modified. It caused the front cover of a book to find its bottom, hover high in the air above it and wait for the pages to find their missing parts, to order themselves in the proper way between the covers so that they and the cover could drop when all the pages, or all that could be found, had been lined up, thereby reforming the book.

The work would have taken one goblin a fair amount of time to do. With the ten goblins chanting the spell at the same time, in a rather beautiful harmony, it still took over three hours. When the final cover dropped, the Keepers, who had been watching in awe from the doorways and through the windows, applauded their feat. The Reserve goblins smiled tiredly while the Bookbinder took it all as his due.

“These would need to be properly bond,” he told Snape.

Snape shrugged. “I have no more money. This will have to do.”

“How much?”

They all turned to Zmejuka’s Ivan.

“No,” said Snape.

“How much?”

“How quickly do you want this done?” countered the Bookbinder.

“As quickly and as well as possible.”

The Bookbinder ignored Snape to do some quick calculations. “It’s my slack time. If you don’t care for anything fancy, just plain binding and we can repair the pages that were torn... Hmmm, let’s say eleven weeks at the most and...”

Even the Directress goggled at the amount.

Zmejuka’s Ivan only nodded. “Done. And as the books are repaired and bond, they are returned to the Brewer immediately.”

“I can’t accept this.” Snape tried to step between the Rider offering his hand and the goblin who was reaching for it. A handshake meant a legal deal.

“Brewer. It is a pittance to me. Truly. You can check with the Bursar if you doubt me. And it doesn’t put my life in jeopardy. I have a dragon that will be hale and hardy because of you. Let me do this, otherwise I shall have to owe you a life debt.”

“There is no life debt involved, Rider.”

Zmejuka’s Ivan shrugged. “That is not for you to determine, Brewer. Had my dragon died, and the Breeder assures me that it was a distinct possibility, I would have died with her. You saved her for me. I see that as a life debt. So the choice is yours. Either allow me to pay my debt off this manner or I shall have to haunt your every step in hopes of balancing out this debt that I owe you. Is that what you want, Brewer? A Rider and his dragon in your Hall?”

The Bookbinder offered his hand again and it was taken.

“I’ll find a way of fitting in more bookcases into your house,” said the Steward.

Snape shook his head. “Wait until I see what has been rescued. There are many that will be better suited to the Library than to the house.”

[:]:]:]

 

The Directress decided the day was too fine to sit inside an office dealing with the limitless paperwork that was engendered by the Reserve. She went out onto the balcony and leaned over the railing to see what was happening.

After the near-fiasco with Zmejuka, the season had brought about no other great crisis, only the usual ones.

There had been changes, however.

The Healer, on coming back from a very relaxing holiday, announced that he was taking on an apprentice. So that if... He’d looked at his wife then said, so that when they next went on holiday, there would be someone left behind who could care for most emergencies. His grand-daughter, Isabella, had finished school and would be joining their household.

The Directress hadn’t been all that certain about his choice. Standing next to her grandfather, the young woman looked to be less than half of him. On first impression, the Directress doubted that she could handle a six ton, thirty foot long dragon. But the Apprentice had hidden talents. She was stronger than she looked, but best of all, her voice was soothing and proved to be able to calm, at least to some extent, even the most nervous, the most temperamental of their charges. Zmejuka herself could be persuaded to allow the Apprentice to approach her, though not for long.

Still, with the time to develop this skill further, the Apprentice might prove to be a Dragon Healer after all.

The Reserve had as well acquired a Human Healer. It seemed that Zmejuka’s Ivan had a sister, Sarica, who had worked in a hospital as a volunteer, as her father had refused to allow her to study as a medi-witch. She had arrived for a visit and the Directress had taken one look at her and decided that should she ever have occasion to make the Baron’s life miserable, she would take it joyfully.

The woman limped from having a leg broken as a child and not getting the medical attention she’d needed. There was a scar that bisected one side of her face, pulling down the eye, pulling up the edge of her mouth so that it seemed she was sneering at the world. She usually walked, face down, her hair hiding the marred features.

It turned out that while she had worked as a volunteer, she had in fact acquired a good knowledge of healing. She had no qualifications, not even those of apprentice and was considered too old to be accepted as one. No hospital would take her as other than a volunteer, but this was a Reserve. Sarica showed some interest in the situation here on the Reserve. Moreover, she had enough training in the basic healing spells that the Directress offered her a trial period to see if her skills would be adequate to their needs and if the woman would willing to remain with them.

Sarica, both thrilled and honoured to be offered a chance, plunged into the work. She joined the Healer when he discussed human health problems with his apprentice. Her note books were as detailed as the Brewer’s with that information and what she garnered out of the medical texts in the library. She even spent time with the Brewer himself, somehow persuading him to allow her to assist him when he was brewing human medications. She questioned, she researched, she carefully began exploring more than the usual areas of healing, areas which were particular to Reserves and human responses to dragon magic.

She was so dedicated to studying her craft that the Directress wondered if she was going to have to ‘negotiate’ with her as she had had to with her Brewer.

In no time at all, the Keepers were referring to her as Healer Sarica and the Directress told Zmejuka’s Ivan to move his sister into a house of her own.

Her Brewer was getting more involved with the dragons, especially a particular one: Zmejuka. A couple of times a week, he would leave the Dining Hall with several oranges in his pockets and everyone knew he was headed to the pens. If anyone commented on the fact, he always used the excuse that he needed to see her progress for himself. It was a cause of much talk in the pens that the dragon would allow him to rub her ears after he’d fed her the oranges. She even allowed Albus to remain at his feet and she was a dragon with no particular fondness for dragon dogs.

The Directress knew that her Brewer and Zmejuka’s Ivan were meeting for lessons in Legilimency. It was her opinion that that first linking between Brewer and dragon had left some connection between the two, and that to Zmejuka, the Brewer was just another Rider she had chosen. Legilimency was a skill that was not all that easy to acquire, but anything that might help was worth exploring.

During a meeting with her Brewer, she’d asked him what he thought of the brewing skills of the new members of her staff. Though brewing was his domain, potions were still part of the responsibilities of both Healers.

He’d rolled his eyes. “The Apprentice is no better than the Healer himself.”

She hadn’t been all that worried. After all, they were there for healing, not really for producing potions unless in an emergency. And this Brewer’s cupboards were never less than filled to capacity. “Well, it’s not as though we’re dependent on them. What about Healer Sarica?”

He’d paused to think before answering. “She’s adequate.”

By now she was well aware of the level of his expectations. “Adequate by Outside standards or by yours?”

He’d shrugged then admitted, a little reluctantly, “By mine.”

The Directress had known better than to smile. Still, it was a measure of the Healer Sarica’s ability that he’d stopped at the door to mutter, “She has duplicates of the potions in my cabinet at home.”

Which went a far way to explaining Healer Sarica’s presence at the weekly poker game held in the Brewer’s Hall.

There was, on many reserves, some tension and even antagonism between Healers and Brewers. Often between Breeders and Healers as well. She’d been fortunate in that her Breeder and Healer had always respected the other’s ability and territory. And that they both respected the Brewer’s skills.

It had begun with the occasional meeting, held in the Brewer’s Hall when the Brewer was working on some potion that required his presence through the night. The men met, discussed situations and possible potion modifications, or tore apart the latest issue on dragon care. At one such meeting, Healer Sarica had joined them. Gradually the cards had come out.

Now gaming was part of every Reserve. The Directress herself had no objections to the sport, so long as no one was seriously damaged. However, early on in her authority, one of her Riders had ended up losing a year’s wages to some Visitor. Not a problem in itself but the man had a wife and a young babe and she’d left him because of the situation.

After that, the Directress had brought down the rule that, on this Reserve, no more than a month’s pay was ever to be wagered, and once that was lost, the Keeper had to abstain until the next pay quarter. Otherwise, it was dung duty.

Dragon dung was very popular with herbologists and gardeners, and brought in some good money for any reserve. The gathering of it was assigned to novice and apprentice Keepers. It was a messy, incredibly smelly job – the scent of dragon dung permeated clothing and was hard to remove from skin exposed to it – and made for a good threat, especially when she’d carried through on it a few times.

So when the poker evenings began, the Directress gently reminded the Healer of the rules and left them to it. Mind, she did drop in, now and then, just to see how matters were.

That first time, it didn’t surprise her to find the Breeder, the Healer, Healer Sarica and the Brewer sitting back with drinks and cards. The presence of her Secretary, the Steward and the Librarian did. Goblins and wizards worked well together. They didn’t usually socialise unless it was some Reserve function.

The next time, the presence of the Cook was another surprise. Especially the size of the stack of coins in front of her. That time, she, herself, had pulled up a chair and joined the game. Conversation was general, not potions related. There was gossip, interesting things the dragons had done, compound news was retold and commented upon. It made for a pleasant evening away from the usual duties.

The spring had been a good one for hatchlings. They’d lost very few of them. One of the female Riders announced she was pregnant and both Healer Sarica and the Brewer met regularly to discuss her care and potions which might protect the babe she was carrying from dragon magic. It was not a sure thing, but the Directress was more optimistic than usual. Wylda Liuba was a healthy, growing hope of success.

The summer had brought with it Visitors, some easier to deal with than others, as was usual. It was a pity that their money was so badly needed to supplement her budget or she would have shut the Reserve down to them. There had been the usual burns to care for when some Visitor had not listened to instructions. One had also had to have bones mended when he’d ignored rules and got between two young bulls. But other than that, everything was going well in her domain.

She spied a couple of Visitors walking around in the compound, heading for the residential area. Maybe family? She’d inquire from the Bursar at lunch. Family was one thing, Visitors quite another. They had no reason to be in that part of the compound. Then one of them lowered the hood of the summer cloak and the red hair made her think that the Visitors were family to Gorynych’s Charlie.

Funny that, she hadn’t heard him mention he was expecting visitors.

She was at late lunch, going over some special dining requests of the Visitors with Marise, when her peaceful season came to an abrupt end.

The Hall was mostly empty. There were a few tables with Keepers lingering over their meals and her Brewer was at his with the Librarian. The Bookbinder had been a little off with his estimate of delivery. Some of the books had been difficult to work with for a variety of reasons, and so were still straggling in. They were looking over the latest delivery, probably deciding whether these would be added to the library collection or to the Brewer’s.

The Steward had delivered a total of eight bookcases to the Brewer’s house, another five to his Hall, and that had taken care of approximately half of the Brewer’s collection. The other books were finding homes in the library stacks, carefully stamped with “On loan from the Reserve Brewer” and the dates the books had been added. Njega was having the time of her life and Healer Sarica could be found as often in the library as she was in her office in the Directress’s building.

The door opened and Gorynych’s Charlie entered, Wylda in his arms. The Visitor’s red hair belonged to the woman at his side, who was nattering to the child who didn’t look certain that she cared for the attention. Behind them was an older man, balding and looking a little uncomfortable. Katrina was at his side, her face flushed, her mouth tightly pressed as though holding back words. Ah, so the Visitors had indeed not been expected.

What occurred next happened so quickly that no one had time to react.

One moment the woman was talking to the child; the next, she had launched herself at the Brewer, her nails racking his face.

“Murderer! Murderer!” Her outraged shrieks brought every conversation to a standstill.

“Mum!”

The Brewer rose to his feet, face white against the lines of slowly oozing red.

“Molly,” he said, his voice expressionless.

“You bastard!” The woman spat, her spittle joining the red.

He didn’t move.

“MUM!” Gorynych’s Charlie handed Wylda to her mother, who held the child close to her shoulder.

The woman turned her anger onto her son. “You! You knew! You knew he was here and you never said anything.”

Charlie tried to pull her back from the Brewer, but she twisted herself out of his grip.

The older man tried to step in between mother and son. “Molly! Charlie!”

She turned and pointed to the Brewer. “Murderer! You deserve to die!”

“Mother!”

Not many had ever seen Gorynych’s Charlie lose his temper. It was not a hot thing, which one would expect considering the hair, but a cold, chilling thing. And his voice was beginning to lower the temperature of the hall.

Keepers stepped back, one drawing the Librarian away from the focus of everyone’s attention.

“Mother,” the words were snapped out with a noticeable lack of patience, “Severus was exonerated from the killing of Dumbledore. By Dumbledore himself.”

The look she turned on him was feral. “But not Percy’s,” she bit out. “He killed Percy.”

Gorynych’s Charlie frowned in confusion. “What are you talking about? Scrimgeour killed Percy.”

“Because of him!” She spat again, this time her spittle only reaching the Brewer’s robes. She would probably have lunged for him again, but her husband had got hold of her arm and held her back.

“Molly.” Though he looked embarrassed, the man did nothing to defuse the situation.

Gorynych’s Charlie tried, pitching his voice for soothing as he said, “Severus had nothing to do with Percy’s death.”

The woman’s anger would not abate. “Yes, he did. He’s the one who told Scrimgeour that Percy was spying on him for the Order.”

He was beginning to lose patience. “What are you talking about?”

She removed her glare from the Brewer to bestow it on her son. “I know the truth. Your brothers told me. Told me and your father how they found out. That to prove his loyalty,” she gestured wildly towards the Brewer, “to his Dark Master, this traitor revealed Percy’s role in the Order.”

“Which bro...?” Gorynych’s Charlie propped his fists onto his hips, his face incredulous. “Are you telling me the twins told you that Severus... Bloody hell! That’s not the truth.”

But she wouldn’t listen. “What would you know of truth? You who have hidden your brother’s murderer from Justice!”

Gorynych’s Charlie’s growing anger was obvious to all watching. “Mother, it wasn’t Severus. It was...”

But she ignored him to scream at the Brewer. “The Wizengamot will be delighted to know of your whereabouts, Murderer! You got away from their justice once, but not this time. This time, you will be tried and found guilty. You may have got away with killing the finest wizard in the world, but you will be Kissed for killing my Percy!”

The Directress had had enough and stepped in. “Madam, you are mistaken.” Only to have the harridan turn on her.

“You bitch, hiding him, granting him sanctuary. It’s not bad enough that my grand-daughter is being raised in the midst of dragons, where she will be tainted...”

“Molly!” This time it was the man who intervened, his voice biting out every word that came out of his mouth. “Charlie and Katrina’s life style is not a matter for discussion. It is their way, not ours.”

“It cost us one grandchild already, Arthur Weasley. How many more will be sacrificed to these dragons? This is no place for a child! Only for wizards and witches into bestiality and now it seems for murderers!”

“Gorynych’s Charlie...” began the Directress.

“His name is Charlie! Charlie Weasley!” screeched the woman. “He doesn’t belong to some bloody dragon!”

No one noticed that the Brewer had left the Hall until the woman turned to scream at him and he wasn’t there.


	9. Nine by Josan

It had taken more time than she had liked, but finally, Gorynych’s Charlie had managed to convince his Visitors to leave the Dining Hall and to return to his house to discuss the situation. Chudo-Udo’s Katrina with Wylda had already disappeared into the kitchen with Marise. The Directress did not think Marise would allow them back to the house until Gorynych’s Charlie had dealt with the matter. Not that the Cook feared for the woman and her child, but it was obvious that neither needed to hear the rest of the ‘discussion’ between son and mother.

Mind, though the woman was more than hostile, the man seemed to be willing to hear explanations.

So it was later than she’d wanted when she knocked at the door of the Brewer’s house. At least that’s where she hoped she’d find him; the Brewer’s Hall had been empty.

There was no response, but she tried the door and was not all that surprised when, after all these years, it still opened to her.

He wasn’t in the parlour, but from the bedroom she could hear the anxious whimpers of the dog. Before she left the parlour she noticed something peculiar. Small stacks of journals or books, with white papers on the top. Papers which turned out to be invoices with the Bursar’s bold, handwritten “Paid” on each.

In the bedroom, there were more of the small piles, including clothing, and their papers. There was also a dog sitting on the floor by the bed, watching his master make more of the small piles, adding the invoices to them.

“Brewer.”

He didn’t look at her, but continued his fevered activity.

“Brewer, what are you doing?”

She used her Rider’s voice as though he were a skittish young dragon. She got his attention this time.

“Proving that I have paid for the items I will be taking with me. I don’t want to be accused of thievery as well.”

“Where are you going, Brewer?” She approached the bed carefully, her hand on her wand.

He stilled for a moment. “No idea. Just away from here before the Aurors appear.”

Yes, of course, he would think that. She tried to infuse her voice with a calm that she hoped would penetrate the distress that filled the room. “Why would they do that, Brewer? They had no authority here.”

He laughed and she shivered at the sound. So much pain, so much...fear.

“Brewer, sit down.”

He shook his head and went to find the invoice that belonged with the cloak he had folded on the bed.

“Brewer. There is no need for you to leave. I’ve explained to you that the British Wizengamot has no power here.”

He stopped to rest his head against the wardrobe door. Despair coloured his words. “They will convince the Federation and the Aurors will have the authority to arrest me.” He turned his head to face her and she wanted to reach out and comfort him at the misery, the too very real anguish she saw in his face.

The Breeder had had such a look the night his little daughter had died. The shock of losing someone...something one holds dearer than life.

Albus crawled to her on his belly and looked up as though expecting her to explain to him what was happening. She stooped to pat the animal on the side, as she watched her Brewer bustle around the room.

“The books. I can’t take them with me. If the Librarian still wants them, she’s to take them.”

“Why wouldn’t she want them, Brewer?”

“Because like everything else they are tainted with the touch of a murderer.”

She sighed and shook her head. “Brewer. Severus. Sit down. Now.”

She used her dragon voice, one that had seen her rise to Head Rider. It penetrated his anxiety. He looked at her, closed his eyes and just sagged down onto the bed. Albus rushed up and jumped onto the bed next to him, wriggling himself onto her Brewer’s lap and whimpering as he licked the man’s face.

Snape suddenly collapsed and held the dog close to him. He buried his face in the dog’s fur and made a sound that was much of a sob. His head jerked up, his face, what she could see behind the fall of hair, even more pained than before. “Please,” his voice hoarse, “I can’t take him with me. It’s not fair to him. Please, I’ll leave you all the money I can, but find him a home. Someone who will appreciate him and protect him. I can’t...”

He buried his face into the dog’s fur again and Albus got even more upset.

The Directress sat on the bed next to her Brewer.

“You still don’t understand, do you? Not even after a year here with us. I suppose it’s not all that surprising. You came to us late. Now listen to me, Brewer, and listen carefully.”

He didn’t raise his head from the dog, but his breathing calmed.

“You say that the Wizengamot will convince the Federation to turn you over to the Aurors. This will not happen.”

He shook his head. “Yes, it will.”

“Brewer!” Damn, this was so exasperating.

“No,” he rubbed his face once more in Albus’s fur, “it is you who don’t understand. I won exile by one vote. One vote. The Aurors were so certain that I was to be sentenced to Azkaban that they...” He straightened. “They were not happy with the outcome of the vote. Nor were many on the Wizengamot. Some had been supporters of Fudge and continued being so even after Scrimgeour became Minister. Then to discover how he had fooled them... They have been embarrassed publically. They will be more than happy to grab at any excuse to clear their embarrassment.”

She shook her head. “Brewer. Even should they find a way, they will not find Severus Snape.”

He laughed, a choked sound. “No, they won’t, for I will not be here.”

She frowned. “I agree, Severus Snape will not be here. But the Reserve Brewer will be. Epona! Brewer, think a moment. Who uses names here? Other than Gorynych’s Charlie, does anyone call you Severus? Or even Snape? Have you any idea of the Healer’s name? The Breeder’s? Mine?”

“Marise.”

“Pft! Marise is a law onto herself. Even you have to acknowledge that.”

“The goblins.”

She made a moue with her mouth. “Since when do goblins concern wizards? Not here, of course, but Outside?”

He turned his head to see her better and she could see him fight hope. But he had lost it too often in his life for it to return to him easily.

“Look, Brewer. Even should the Federation decide to accommodate the Wizengamot, they will do so in words and documents that make sense to the world of wizards, but which have no bearing in the world of the People of the Dragons. You are safe here. Here they cannot touch you. You are not a wizard any more, Brewer, you are one of the People of the Dragons. You are subject to our laws and traditions, not theirs.”

He was quiet and she hoped he was truly thinking about what she was saying.

“You haven’t asked me if I was responsible for Percy Weasley’s death.”

She rolled her eyes. “Brewer! What do you take me for, a fool? I’ve met the twins – once – and they have been banned from the Reserve. If they say you are the one, then frankly, I would look at all others before I consider you. Besides, I know you, Brewer. If you’d been responsible for the man’s death, in any way, you would be flagellating yourself in remorse.”

He stared at her for a long time. She wished she knew what was going through his mind. Dragons were so much easier to read than he was.

“Thank you.” There was less anxiety in his voice, just a sort of acceptance. “I can’t tell you what that means to me. But I still can’t stay. If I do, I shall bring down trouble onto the Reserve and I don’t want to do that.”

She shook her head and fought the overwhelming urge to beat some sense into him. No wonder Zmejuka liked him, he was as stubborn as she was. Epona! There had to be a way!

“Brewer, do you trust me?”

He didn’t answer right away. “As much as I can trust, I trust you.”

“Then give me your hand.”

He looked at her this time, questions in his eyes, but she was pleased when, instead of asking them, he merely held out his hand.

She smiled at him, raised their joined hands and added her other one so that his was now covered by both of hers. Still, she felt she had to reward this trust of his and allowed her voice to slip into the Gaelic brogue of her youth. “As the seventh daughter of a seventh daughter of a seventh daughter, boyo, I have The Sight. Let us see what is ahead of you, Brewer.”

She closed her eyes and concentrated. She hadn’t done this in many years but found it was still easy enough to slip into the World of Tomorrows.

“You are standing at a fork in the road, Brewer. There are road signs.”

She felt him tremble. She’d been told that her voice changed when she was working her skill.

“One has the name of Severus Snape on it and it leads into the dark. There, the road is twisting and turning. There is pain. Fear. Death. The road is...short.

“The other road sign reads Brewer. The road there is straighter than the other. In the light. There are clouds but they pass fairly quickly. The road leads to the Brewer’s Hall...and to the pens... and... ” Oh! “... and eventually to the burial grounds beyond the residences. A long road, Brewer.”

She released his hand and used her freed ones to rub her face. It took her a minute or so to complete the return to this world. He watched her, his head cocked to one side as he waited for her to recover.

She had to ask. “Is it still such a difficult choice, Brewer?”

He scratched Albus between the ears. “You are offering me the choice between a painful death or a long life in the prison of this compound.”

“Epona!” She threw her hands up. “You are worse than stubborn!” If she could afford to let him go, right now, she’d escort him to the Outside Apparation point herself! But she needed him, and he needed to stay.

“Listen to me, you bloody...brewer! The world of the dragons is larger than just this reserve. There are other ones to begin with. That you can visit during off time. You may wish to avoid the reserves in the Hebrides or in Wales, though they would welcome a chance to learn from your skills.”

No, that was not a good idea. She doubted that he would ever feel safe that close to his bloody Wizengamot.

“There’s the one in Russia that is small, but interesting. China has an enormous one for its Fireballs. There is a relatively new reserve in Lapland for the Northern breeds. If the winter weather gets you down, you can visit the one in the Antepodes, or go with Gorynych’s Charlie when he visits Peru to bring back another Vipertooth. Not to mention the conferences at Federation headquarters, the exchanges with other Brewers. There is a world out there, Brewer, that has little to do with that of wizards. This compound is only a small part of it.’

Before he had time to bring up some argument, she plunged into a topic she’d been wanting to broach the last few months.

“And it’s time you considered publishing.”

As she’d hoped, the change of subject surprised him.

“You have done excellent work with the Healer and it’s time you shared your work with other Reserve Brewers.” Not to mention time he was recognised for his skills and what he’d been doing for their dragons. “And before you protest, I will just remind you that you never see anyone’s name in the journals, only the name of their Reserve and their title. If you are in need of name recognition, then you will be sadly disappointed. All the publishers will use as your by-line is Brewer of the Romanian Reserve.”

Well, at least he was thinking about it.

She sighed and confessed, “The woman Molly was right, you know, if in only one matter. We have no names here, because we do belong to the dragons.

“You can have a life here as Brewer, one that fits you well, one to which you already belong, or you can take up the name and struggles of one Severus Snape. The choice is yours.”

She stood up and looked at him. He closed his eyes and she could feel the battle warring within him. He might trust her, but believing her was another matter completely.

“Which is it to be, Brewer or Severus Snape?”

He rested his head on Albus’s body then straightened. She saw the choice in his eyes. “If it is true that I may choose, then let it be Brewer.”

She smiled at him, so relieved by his choice that she bent to place a kiss on his head.

Which embarrassed them both.

To give them time to recover, she cast a healing spell on the scratches on his face and watched them fade away. Which was good as the man carried far too many scars.

She stepped backwards to the door and gestured to the mess in the room. “Clean that up and throw those papers away. You don’t need them.” But he would keep them, she knew. “Once that’s done, put on the Rider’s clothes that you should still have?”

He nodded.

“Put them on and present yourself to Zmejuka’s Ivan. Bring Albus with you. It’s time both of you knew your places among the People of the Dragons. Hurry. Zmejuka likes to keep to her schedule and she’s due to fly in about twenty minutes.”

She waited at the outer door until she heard doors and drawers slam and then she Apparated down to the pens.

“When you saddle her,” she told Zmejuka’s Ivan, “put a training saddle on her.”

Her Rider was surprised. “Directress?” Everyone knew that the dragon rarely allowed anyone other than him to sit in a saddle, and then never for long.

“You will teach the Brewer to fly. Not as an Apprentice Rider, but I want him to be able to fly should he need to. Arrange a minimum of a weekly training session with him and let me know when he’s ready to solo. Oh, and put a dog harness on the saddle. Albus will be flying with him.”

The Rider laughed. “Well, if it’s him, she’ll probably allow it.”

The Directress grinned in return. “That she will.”

“It’s all those oranges he feeds her.”

[:]:]:]

 

The Directress decided the day was still too fine to sit inside an office dealing with the limitless paperwork that was engendered by the Reserve. She went out onto the balcony and propped herself up against the wall, partially sitting on the railing.

She had her pipe with her and took her time filling it. She didn’t smoke it often, but felt that, today, a victory smoke was not out of order.

From her viewpoint, she could see the activity in the pens, where Zmejuka’s Ivan was saddling his dragon. And she could see her Brewer leave his house, dressed in riding clothes, his hair braided back, Albus running around him in delight.

She wondered for a moment why he was not heading directly to the pens when she realised he was stopping at the Dining Hall. He left the Visitors’ cloak he’d been carrying on the bench by the door, with Albus sitting quietly guarding. She chuckled when she saw her Brewer return, oranges in his hands.

The pace he set for the pens was as close to a run as a walk could be. Albus, knowing where they were headed, ran ahead, turned and came back to his master as though quietly encouraging the man to hasten even more.

At the pens, she saw the two men confer and the Visitors’ cloak relegated to a stack of straw. Cloaks were for Visitors, not Riders. They could get in the way, and besides, the spells for maintaining the body’s warmth were not that hard to master. She was almost certain her Brewer knew a few of those anyway, considering where he’d lived most of his life.

Albus, as was proper for a dragon dog, sat within reach of the dragon’s head, ready to distract her should she pose a threat to his master.

Pity the animal was so small, he had the makings of a good dragon’s dog.

She puffed on her pipe, lighting it, the smoke trailing away in the light mountain breeze as she considered.

She would ask the Breeder to see if he could find another runt, a female. She’d have to be persuasive, as the Breeder didn’t believe in weakening a line, whether dragon or dog. But she could use the fact that dragon dog bitches had as hard a time bearing as did female Riders, and that since the Brewer was working on potions for the latter, why not the former as well? The Breeder would not agree to the Brewer’s ‘experimenting’ on his dogs, but on a smaller, less important line?

And it would tie her Brewer further to the Reserve. Not to mention provide him with replacements when Albus and the yet unknown female would die. Her Brewer would always be somewhat mistrustful of humans, but the dogs would give him the personal emotional support he needed.

Her Brewer and Zmejuka’s Ivan were now going around the dragon, the usual required inspection before taking flight. They stopped at the leg, and the Brewer stooped to examine the effect his latest potion was having on the scar tissue. Zmejuka’s head turned and she watched him. He looked up and said something to her that had both Rider and dragon nodding.

Damn, there were times she really wished the Brewer had come to them straight from school. What a Rider he would have made!

She had to laugh aloud when he boldly went to the dragon’s head and reached up to angle it so that he could examine the once-damaged eye properly. Her Healer had indicted when he’d returned that there had been a very real chance that she would have lost the eye had the Brewer not dealt with it that day.

The dragon allowed him the liberty, even once more dropping her head so he could rub her ears because by now she knew what was coming; the oranges, which he fed her one at the time.

Then it was time to mount and she watched as her Brewer listened to the Rider’s instructions. No Mobilis for a Rider! He was a little clumsy, but that would improve. He settled into the forward saddle and strapped himself in. When he’d done so to the Rider’s satisfaction, Albus was tossed up and harnessed in.

The Directress laughed. Even from here she could sense the dog’s delight and eagerness. Maybe a smaller breed was not such a bad thing. Trained more for calming humans than for dragons. It would give new Visitors something to concentrate on other than the initial fear and trepidation of their first ride. Some of them were so nervous or fearful that it affected the dragon, which was not a good thing. Something to consider.

There was a loud altercation coming from the path from the residences that got her attention. Gorynych’s Charlie and his Visitors. Her Rider was tight-lipped and white-faced. The man, his father, had no expression on his face, though he walked stiffly from some emotion. The woman was still fuming, spitting mad. Even few steps she would try to stop and say something, but her husband had her firmly by the arm and would continue walking, pulling her along.

The Directress sighed, rolling the bowl of her pipe in her hand. She would have to find a way of suggesting to Gorynych’s Charlie that these Visitors were no longer welcome at her Reserve. That future family meetings were to be held off Reserve. Mind, from the look of him, she didn’t think that the suggestion would be badly received.

He would need time to regain his composure. Maybe this would be a good time for his small family to spend a week or two up in the mountains, seeing to the winter dens. The older dragons loved the attention and the child would be exposed...

She laughed softly to herself.

The child had already been up on her parents’ dragons. The Head Keeper had reported that she had indicated a definite preference for the Vipertooth. When Gorynych’s Charlie next went to Peru, she’d have him look for a possible candidate for Wylda.

But right now, there was an Ironbelly making her way to the launch point.

The Directress sucked thoughtfully on her pipe.

She would give her Brewer a good fifteen years to settle before...

No, it had better be twenty. He would never lose that insecurity that this could be taken away from him, but if she gave him the time, it would be reduced to a mere shadow. Yes, twenty years and then she’d gradually start introducing him to his new duties. A little at a time.

Twenty years would allow him to build a reputation of his own among the People of the Dragons. They would give him time to train Healer Sarica to his exacting standards. A combined Human Healer/Brewer might not be a bad thing for this reserve. Which reminded her, she must see to Healer Sarica’s learning to ride as well. On a smaller dragon, maybe a Welsh Green.

And it wouldn’t be a bad thing if her Brewer learnt to fly other dragons as well. Each breed had its own peculiarities.

Yes, twenty years and what? Another fifteen for him to learn all he needed to. So by the time she was ready to retire, he’d have no trouble stepping into the position of Reserve Director.

A Reserve Director had to be bound to and trusted by one’s dragons, as well as to one’s people. And he would make a good Director, even though he’d be young for the position. Fierce. Loyal. Protective of his dragons and his people.

She chuckled to herself at the thought of the confrontations that would occur at those Directors’ meetings at Federation headquarters. Epona! They thought her difficult! One day they would understand how easy she had been!

From the launch site, Zmejuka jumped and her large wings spread out, the membrane pillowing out from the air. A downbeat and she rose some thirty feet into the air.

It was a beautiful sight, one that never stopped making the Directress wish that she was the one in the saddle.

She watched until the dragon and her riders were nothing but a speck in the afternoon sky.

“Ahem.”

Yes, well, this wasn’t getting that bloody paperwork done. Glowacki was glaring at her, a wad more of the stuff in his hands.

She knocked the contents of her dead pipe out against the wall and sucked once to make certain it was clean.

“Yes, yes. I’m coming. No need to make those faces, Secretary.”

The End


End file.
